


No Escaping When I Start

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2019-08-09 17:24:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 50
Words: 106,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16454192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: Clara Oswald had always dreamed of being a household name. Teacher of English by day and larcenist of the rich by night, her alter ego’s crimes have left her at the top of a very long list - and not the kind she’d always aspired to.Detective Chief Inspector John Smith has spent twenty years cleaning up the streets of Glasgow. Returning to the capital under extreme duress, he’s as surprised as anyone else when the case of the Impossible Girl lands on his desk.When their worlds collide, it will put both of them to the test…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here it isssssss! I'm so excited to share this with you all at last. It's quite a lot darker than some of my previous AUs, so you have been warned.

“‘The so-called Impossible Girl last night made off from the Van Statten estate with more than five thousand in cash, as well as priceless patents for new technology that could be worth upwards of a quarter of a million pounds. Speaking exclusively to the _Times_ , Henry Van Statten confirmed that he is in a state of shock, and that he will be pursuing all available legal avenues in a bid to regain his property,’” Bonnie Oswald read from her phone, before lowering the device and affixing her twin sister with a long, bemused look. “Something you want to tell me, sis?”

From her place at the kitchen counter, Clara continued to keep her eyes fixed on the kettle, spooning instant coffee into two mugs without removing her gaze from the beaten-up white appliance. “Oh,” she said in the flattest tone she could manage and trying to suppress a smirk of self-satisfaction. “That’s what those plans were. I thought they looked important.”

“Clara,” Bonnie groaned, setting her phone down and putting her head in her hands as Clara finally allowed herself to grin. “Clara, you promised, you swore you weren’t going to do it again, and now you’ve pissed off Henry Van Statten!”

“Oh, please,” Clara rolled her eyes, lifting the kettle from its base as it boiled and decanting water into the matching mugs, the two of them as identical as herself and her twin. “He’s a jumped up little twat who uses his money and his tech as dick substitutes. He had it coming, and incidentally, having now seen his dick — believe me, the money was a much better offer.”

Bonnie closed her eyes, letting out another agonised groan before asking, despite herself: “Tell me you didn’t shag him.”

“Excuse me,” Clara asked with mock affront, heaping sugar into her sister’s drink. “I do not shag men with micro-penises, thank you. I was rather busy, and I think he thought that the offer of sex was a good plan.”

“And why would he have thought that?”

“Aww, come on,” Clara reached into the fridge and snagged a bottle of milk with “O” scrawled on the label in Sharpie, taking the lid off and giving it an appraising sniff. “Don’t make me say it out loud.”

“I’m making you say it out loud.”

“Bitch,” she muttered, pouring milk into each cup then turned to the table, setting a mug down in front of her twin and then plonking herself into the available seat opposite Bonnie. “He thought it was an appealing enough prospect that it might distract me from robbing him.”

“Try again.”

“He was being a narcissist?”

“Nope.”

“Because of all the alcohol I gave him?”

“ _There_ we go.”

“Come on,” Clara smirked, taking a sip of her drink. “Like you wouldn’t have done the same.”

“I wouldn’t,” Bonnie said tightly, not bothering to hide her judgement. “Actually.”

“Excuse me, you copped off with that… what was her name? The manager of the Bank of England.”

“Yeah, but that was done while largely sober. Plus I only nicked the cab fare home, and it wasn’t _technically_ stealing because she said I could take what I needed.”

“God, you’re boring. Karabraxos is worth… how much?”

“Clara, you need to pack this in before you get caught,” Bonnie said in a rush, reaching over and placing a hand on her sister’s arm. “Van Statten is not the kind of man you want hunting you down.”

“Yeah, because he can totally succeed where the Met have failed,” Clara scoffed, leaning away from her sister and focusing on her mug of coffee. “Relax. He won’t find me. You know I’m too good for that.”

“N-”

“Besides, Psi is already dealing with everything I offloaded last night. Thinks he knows some takers for the plans — some scouts from Samsung and Apple are sniffing around, and not too bothered about the how and the who — so it’s looking to be that this’ll build up the nest egg a little further.”

“When are you ever going to actually _use_ that nest egg?” Bonnie asked, dubiously. “In case you hadn’t noticed, a five-bedroom shared house in Shoreditch is not exactly the same as a townhouse in Chelsea.”

“Is that you asking for your cut?” Clara teased. “Because that could be arranged.”

“No!” Bonnie seemed scandalised by the very prospect. “No, I’m not… god, no, I don’t want your blood money.”

“It’s not blood money,” Clara pointed out. “It’s… champagne money. Much less bad.”

“I still don’t want it,” Bonnie groused, sipping her coffee and affixing her twin with a scowl. “And I maintain that you need to pack this in.”

“And I maintain that you need to stop being so boring,” Clara got to her feet, both hands wrapped around her mug. “I’m going to shower.”

“That’s nice.”

“And then do laundry.”

“Is that a nice way of saying ‘destroy the evidence’?”

“Can you stop being such a bitch for five-”

There was a noise outside the kitchen door and both of them fell silent, Clara’s hand reaching instinctively towards the expensive-looking knife block, one that erred just slightly on the side of being too upmarket for a house of young professionals. Just as her fingers closed around the paring knife, the door opened and one of their housemates stumbled inside, looking thoroughly exhausted and more than a little worse for wear. Clara let go of the knife at once, sidling along the counter and feigning a casual air.

“Morning,” Martha Jones mumbled sleepily, stifling a yawn and sinking into Clara’s now-vacant seat. “I hate you both, you know?”

“Why?” Clara asked, furrowing her brow and trying return her heartrate to normal as she took in Martha’s general air of fatigue. “What have we done?”

“You have wonderful jobs that don’t involve working nights,” Martha suppressed another yawn. “And you have coffee.”

“Oh,” Clara let out a relieved laugh. “Want a coffee?”

“Please,” Martha said, with gratitude. “God, you have no idea how bloody miserable that consultant I’m shadowing is. I think he’s having marital troubles, but the way he lays into us! Jesus, I’m not surprised his wife is less than happy if he talks to her like he does to us.”

Clara set about making another mug of coffee in silence, then leant against the counter once she’d passed it to a grateful Martha.

“Have I…” for the first time, the junior doctor looked between the two of them and seemed to register the terse silence. “Have I stumbled into the middle of a domestic?”

“Oh, no,” Bonnie gave a tight little laugh. “Clara was just about to have a shower, but I did point out to her that you’d be getting home shortly and your need would be greater than hers.”

“Why are you in need of a shower?” Martha asked Clara, a smirk playing around the corner of her mouth, and Clara forced a similar look, hoping she looked somewhat guilty and post-coital, rather than somewhat guilty and post-burglary. “What were you doing last night? Or _who_?”

“A lady never tells,” she said, with a slightly chagrined, saint-like manner. “But it’s fine; if you nip in ahead of me, I can sort my laundry. Got anything to go in? I’m doing a dark wash.”

“Uh,” Martha dithered for a moment, as though trying to force her brain into gear. “Yeah, actually. Some jeans. Hang tight, I’ll go and grab them.”

Before either twin could speak, the junior doctor had darted from the room, leaving them alone together.

“You are not seriously going to do this,” Bonnie hissed in an undertone. “You can’t wash evidence with her stuff! That’s making her complicit!”

“No, that’s saving water,” Clara shot back. “Think of the planet, Bon.”

“Don’t ‘Bon’ me,” her twin scowled. “Think of your housemate! You love Martha!”

“Yeah, so I’m doing her laundry,” Clara rolled her eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I-”

Bonnie fell silent as Martha reappeared, clutching two pairs of faded black jeans and an oversized black hoodie. “Sorry,” she began. “I forgot I got ketchup on it the other day at dinner and I should probably… have I interrupted something again?”

“No,” Clara said with a practiced ease, smiling reassuringly at her housemate. “Bonnie was just annoyed that I’ve reserved the washing machine. Quick, stick your stuff in before she commandeers it.”

With a laugh, Martha chucked her articles of clothing inside, then grabbed her coffee. “Well, I’m off to shower. Won’t be long. Thanks for the laundry — you’re a star.”

“That’s fine,” Clara smiled. “No rush on the shower front. You probably need it more than me.”

Martha shot her a grateful look and disappeared in the direction of the bathroom, as Clara studiously avoided meeting her twin’s gaze.

“Right,” Clara said, mostly to herself. “I’ll go and get my laundry and then we can stick it on once Martha and I have showered.”

Not for the first time, she cursed their useless boiler and even more useless hot water system. Still. Needs must.

“Fine,” Bonnie said in a flat voice. “You do that.”

“Fine,” Clara shot back. “I will.”

Taking her mug of now-lukewarm coffee upstairs, she closed her bedroom door behind herself and looked over at the bed. Her dress from the previous evening was laid out on top of the duvet, her stockings arranged artfully beside it. Her wig and her shoes, both of which had cost her a small fortune, were already stashed safely at the back of her wardrobe, but there was a certain kind of satisfaction that came from seeing her battle armour — as she privately called it — laid out like this, even if it was immediately to be consigned to the washing machine. She supposed Bonnie had a point — sticking it in the wash alongside Martha’s clothing was somewhat immoral, given the risk of any transfer of potential evidence, but she had to make do with what she could. She’d covertly make it up to her housemate, and overtly to her sister. Flowers, perhaps, for Bonnie, and takeaway for Martha? Only then there were Amy and Rory to think of and include, even if they only ever seemed to spend their time as a twosome, and they might ask questions if she paid for them all, but-

“Knock knock,” Bonnie called from the other side of the door, and Clara jumped as her sister failed to wait for an invitation, instead stepping inside unbidden. “Ooh, nice dress.”

“You’ve changed your tune.”

“Yeah, well,” Bonnie sighed, but her expression was conciliatory. “I can still be a little impressed, even when I’m pissed off with you.”

“Good to know,” Clara rolled up the dress and stockings, then snagged several other dark items out of her laundry basket and chucked them onto the bed. “Is that all?”

“No, actually,” Bonnie swallowed, and looking over at her, Clara could see that whatever her twin was about to say, it was not something easy. “I ah… I wanted to ask if there was any room in that wash cycle for my black T-shirt.”

“You don’t have to…”

“Well, nor do you, and yet here we are.”

“Bon…”

“You always promised it would just be a one- or two-time thing,” Bonnie said, quietly. “You always promised you’d stop. It’s been a year, and, if anything… you’re getting more daring.”

“Well, didn’t Mum always tell us to be bold women?”

“I don’t think this was what she had in mind, Clara.”

“But the money…”

“Admit it. This isn’t about the money, and it never has been. I’ve seen your account books-” she caught the look of panic that flashed across her twin’s face, and rolled her eyes. “Please, you think you can hide anything from me? I know how much you’ve got, and if it was about the money, you’d have pissed off to some house in Kensington by now. But you haven’t.”

“Because that would look suspicious!”

“Would it?” Bonnie arched an eyebrow. “You’re a self-proclaimed incredible liar, so why not make something up? You could be out of this shitty house, if you really wanted, so it isn’t about the money, is it? I don’t know what it’s about, but you need to stop, or cut down, or… something. Because this can’t go on.”

“You make it sound like an addiction.”

“Well, clearly it is, Clara.”

“I-”

She was cut off by the sound of her phone ringing from its spot on her bedside table, and, before she could stop her, Bonnie had glanced over at the screen.

“Oh, Christ,” her twin sounded appalled. “You’re not still stringing that poor bloke along, are you?”

“No!” Clara said defensively, then: “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s just… convenient.”

“You’re a shit person,” Bonnie said with characteristic bluntness. “OK? Answer the damn call and keep being a shit person. See if I care.”

With that, her twin turned and stalked out the room, slamming the door behind her. Clara sighed, reaching for the phone and answering it on the last possible ring.

“Danny, hi!” she said, forcing herself to sound upbeat. “Sorry, I was making coffee. What’s up?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara goes to see Danny, who has a confession that takes her completely by surprise…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the wonderful feedback so far!

Clara was not, in all honesty, entirely sure why she had agreed to this. Her relationship with Danny was convoluted and complicated and, latterly, frankly worrisome — but certainly not the kind of thing that typically loaned itself to this kind of gesture. What had commenced as a purely practical arrangement on her part was now bordering on something… well, she didn’t know, but she was now sat in a restaurant, alone, the day after Valentine’s Day, waiting to meet the man who was supposed to be trying to put her behind bars.

In the beginning, it had been simple. She’d been in the middle of a job when the police had arrived, tipped off by a nosy neighbour who’d found it odd to see her target staggering home in the arms of a much younger woman dressed in an elaborate Halloween costume. Clara had been trying to scramble out of an upstairs window when a plain clothes police officer had burst into the room, a shout dying on his lips as he stared her in the face and, inexplicably, smiled.

“Hello,” he’d said, perfectly pleasantly, as though they were meeting in a café or a bar, and she were not half-in and half-out of the sash window while dressed as a Tim Burton character. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“That’s nice,” she’d shot back in the strongest Scottish accent she could manage, determined to give nothing away about herself. “I’ve been avoiding you, myself.”

“You seem to be having some difficulty there,” he’d noted, as she’d pondered just kicking off her shoes and allowing her bare toes to curl into the ice-cold brickwork, thus enabling her to scramble down the drainpipe. “Would you like some help?”

“The kind that ends in me in the back of a police car in handcuffs?” she’d let out a bitter yelp of mirth. “No, thank you.”

“Can I say, in that case, that you’re much prettier than expected?”

“What, because you can tell behind all this stupid face paint?”

“Yeah, I can. Why don’t you drop the accent? It’s not particularly convincing.”

She’d sworn under her breath then, and given up trying to scramble out of the window. Clambering back inside, she’d stood facing him, her chest rising and falling as she’d tried to gauge the severity of the situation.

“Why haven’t you shopped me yet?” she’d asked, switching to the next most preposterous accent she knew — Cockney. “You could’ve yelled for ’elp any second, and they’d be up ’ere like a shot.”

“Maybe I’m intrigued.”

“By?”

“You. I’ve been looking for you, like I said. Beautiful woman robbing rich men. Very intriguing.”

She’d known, deep down, that she should simply get him out of the way and make her escape. There was a thin, elegant knife strapped to her thigh, concealed by the hem of her dress.

“Are you going to hurt me?” he’d breathed, looking almost excited by the prospect, but there was something else that flickered across his face; fear. True fear — not the arrogant, faux-terrified look that so many of her victims had; the look that told of their fear of the loss of their dignity and their assets. No, this was child-like, visceral fear, and it had made her hesitate.

“No,” she’d decided impulsively, unable to bring herself to use the knife, or her hands. “No, I don’t think I will.”

“Would you like to come with me?” he’d asked hopefully, and she’d wondered if that was how he made all of his arrests — by asking nicely.

“What are you?” she’d shot back. “A PC on his day off, come in in plain clothes?”

“I’m CID,” he’d retorted, brow furrowing at her lack of respect. “DI Danny Pink, Metropolitan Police. Now, are you going to-”

She’d kissed him then, sensing his growing impatience and his desire to apprehend her. She’d kissed him, long and sweet, and then pulled away and smirked. “I’d appreciate you keeping this quiet,” she’d murmured. “Detective Inspector.”

And, with that, she’d twisted away from him and slipped out of the house like a shadow, neatly evading the officers stationed outside and disappearing into the autumn night.

She was torn from her recollections by the arrival of the self-same detective inspector, who dropped into the seat opposite her with a scowl that was entirely at odds with his usual sunny disposition.

“What?” she snapped, already irked as he laid down a tatty-looking bunch of roses — cheap, probably bought at the nearby Tesco Metro, but she supposed the thought counted for something — in front of her. “What are those for?”

“They were intended as a Valentine’s gift,” Danny muttered, darkly. “And you’re only getting those because I promised myself I’d get you _something_. I was looking forward to surprising you this evening, so imagine my surprise, Clara, when I found out this morning that you’ve been a very busy little bee.”

She cringed, as she always did, at the sound of him using her first name. She’d had to tell him — she’d had to give him _something_ to call her other than one of her many alter-egos, but she’d steadfastly refused him any other details. No surname, no age, no city of birth. No address, no job, no friends. The more untraceable she was, the better. Even the bank card and the driver’s licence she carried in her handbag bore false information.

“Oh?” she asked, trying to keep her expression neutral. “What have I supposedly done now?”

“Van Statten?” he hissed, and she noticed the awe he couldn’t quite keep from his tone. “Are you insane?”

“Maybe,” she shrugged, leaning back in her chair and taking a sip of the wine she had ordered before his arrival. “Maybe not.”

“So, you’re not denying it then?”

“Are you asking me that as a police detective or as a person?”

“Both!”

“Why did you buy me flowers if you were that angry?” she scowled, neatly sidestepping the question. “Why invite me out at all?”

“Because it’s Valentine’s-”

“ _Was_ Valentine’s. Yesterday.”

“Yes, but you were somewhat busy burglarising Henry Van Statten!”

“Keep your voice down!” she snarled, casting a furtive look around them and thanking god she’d had the good sense to pick the quietest corner of the restaurant. “Come on, the bastard had it coming. He’s been gentrifying the East End for years, and his technology is exploiting workers overseas.”

“So that makes it alright?”

“Yes, it does.”

“Tell me you didn’t fuck him.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters!” Danny looked aghast by her refusal to deny it. “Tell me you didn’t!”

“How stupid do you think I am? When have I ever fucked anyone on a job?”

Danny fell silent, casting his mind back over the details he had undoubtedly gleaned from her file. It gave her a shiver of both pleasure and fear to think of all that the mysterious, far-away file contained. “Urm…”

“Never,” she said stonily. “Because guess what? Fucking people leaves DNA behind. DNA I’m not particularly keen to have anyone discover. Would you especially want the cells from your reproductive organs being analysed by the police? No.”

“I wouldn’t mind if I had nothing to hide,” he mumbled sourly. “Which I don’t.”

“Except for having dinner with the woman you’re meant to be ‘bringing to justice,’” she said with liberal sarcasm, adopting an expression from the comics she knew he enjoyed so much. “And fucking her.”

“Don’t,” he said hotly, “don’t call it that.”

“Well, what would you call it? Let me guess, you have some wonderful, cuddly synonym that you prefer, like ‘making love’?”

“Don’t try to make it sound like you’re some… I don’t know, cheap whore.”

“Aren’t I?” she shot back. “Isn’t that what you think of me, Danny? That I’m some cheap whore who gets her kicks by robbing the rich?”

“I’ve never thought that about y-”

“Oh, shut up. Yes, you have. That’s what you thought of me to start with-”

“You’re putting words in my mouth!”

“And that’s what you think of me now. Well, for your information, I’ve never fucked a mark. Not that it matters, because we’ve never made any kind of commitment to each other, and if it’s just the sex you’re after then you really didn’t need to go to the effort of buying me dinner to get me to open my legs, you know? You could’ve just asked, because god knows, I’ve never felt like less of a person than when you’re screwing me.”

“Clara!”

“The police officer and his naughty little affair with his bit of rough. How could I help make this all the more fun for you? Why don’t we fuck at a crime scene? How would that be? Or I could tie you up, or hold you at knifepoint while you’re inside me.”

“Why are you reacting like this? Jesus Christ, I was just _asking_ …”

“No, you were judging me. You were making assumptions about my behaviour and my actions, and you were making assumptions about us, and you were trying to force me into some kind of mould. I’m not your girlfriend, Danny. You know that. You know why that can’t ever happen.”

“Clara…” he mumbled, and he actually have the gall to sound apologetic. “I really didn’t mean any harm by it, I just…”

“Just what?”

“You need to be more careful, OK? The Met isn’t stupid-”

“Really? They’ve been doing a bloody good job at pretending they are.”

“-and, after Van Statten, they’re on edge. He’s a powerful man and a powerful enemy; you do not want him on your bad side. And nor do Scotland Yard; they’re on to me to bring you in as soon as possible.”

“So?”

“So, you need to lay low for a while. Let me work on the evidence, let me try to lead them up the garden path.”

“Or what?”

“I’m not putting you in handcuffs.”

Clara smirked.

“Oh for god’s… behave.”

“Shan’t.”

“I just want you to be safe. I can’t guarantee that any of the other officers on the case would be as lenient.”

“I don’t know, I could work my magic on them.”

“You mean you could shag them?” Danny asked, flatly. “Yes, wow. How original of you.”

“I don’t know why you’re suddenly so interested in keeping me off the streets. You’re supposed to be hunting me down.”

“Maybe I actually care about you,” he confessed in a rush, and Clara could only blink at him, dumbfounded. “Maybe I want to keep you safe.”

“I…” she stammered, wrongfooted by the admission. “I… but… why?”

“God knows, because all you do is manipulate people, but I do. And I don’t want you to keep taking these stupid risks, because you’ll get caught.”

“I will not.”

“That’s precisely the kind of arrogant, egomaniacal attitude that means you will.”

“Hey!” Clara frowned. “I’m not an arrogant egomaniac.”

“You are. And you’re a game player. That’s why you do what you do.”

“Did you just come here to patronise me, make assumptions, and psychoanalyse me?” Clara snapped. “Because frankly, it’s really fucking rude.”

“I wasn’t making assumptions about you.”

“That really is exactly what you were doing.”

“No,” he said through clenched teeth. “I made an observation. You made an assumption about me — that I don’t care.”

“I made a reasonable assumption based on our history.”

“A very anti-police assumption.”

“Yeah, well, do you know what I’m making now?”

“A fuss?”

“An exit.”

Clara was out of her seat before she could think twice, seizing her jacket from the back of her chair and stalking out of the restaurant. She should’ve known that agreeing to meet Danny today was a mistake. Once he’d put the flowers down, she should’ve realised they were indicative of… well, him starting to care. She hadn’t factored that in; hadn’t considered that the convenience of their relationship — if you could call it that — might grow to something more on his part. She didn’t need this. She didn’t need a police officer fawning after her like a puppy dog. She didn’t need someone to protect her, and she certainly didn’t need him worrying about her.

She felt an idea beginning to form, bitter and calculated, and she checked her watch. The night was still young, and she was dressed to the nines.

It was time to have some fun.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by sheer spite, Clara carries out an impulsive job in a bid to get Danny's attention.

The Clara Oswald that stepped into an upmarket bar in Chelsea an hour later was almost unrecognisable from the Clara Oswald that had left a small, shabby restaurant on the other side of the city. She usually carried some elements of disguise about her person — in case of emergency, she told Bonnie; but in case of opportunity was also an underlying motive — and she had slipped on a clip-on fringe and a pair of glasses, looking every inch the shrewd businesswoman. Had she been anywhere other than the bar she picked, she might have been mistaken for a secretary or an underling, but here, rubbing shoulders with the elite, there could be no doubt among her fellow patrons — she could only be someone wealthy and important.

Or so she told herself, as she elbowed her way through the crowd with as much rudeness as she could muster, effortlessly adopting the entitled air of the wealthy as she moved towards the bar. She’d tried this trick with her appearance before and succeeded then, and she had rather missed the Clark Kent-like theatrical implausibility of it all — a mere pair of glasses and a fringe and no one knew who she was, or the risk she posed. As she leaned over the marble-topped counter and clicked her fingers impatiently at the bar staff, she felt — as she usually did — a small pang of guilt at the behaviour she was forced to adopt. She was playing a part, she told herself. She was playing a part in order to get under the skin of the wealthy and entitled upper classes — and it seemed to be working. As a young woman with a chagrined expression turned her attention to Clara, she could feel several pairs of eyes boring into her, although she would consider her options only after continuing the fiction.

“Martini,” she snapped, adopting the haughtiest accent she could muster. “Dry. And no ridiculous olives, I want it with lemon. Where are your lemons sourced from?”

“I…” the girl blinked in stunned horror, and Clara forced herself to roll her eyes, as though the girl’s impudent ignorance was a personal insult. “Urm, Sicily? Maybe?”

“Well,” Clara clicked her tongue. “That’ll have to do, won’t it?”

“I… urm… yes,” the girl stammered. She couldn’t be older than twenty, and Clara felt a sudden flash of empathy that she had to work in a place like this, where genuine members of the so-called cultural elite probably felt entitled to speak to her as Clara just had on a daily, if not hourly, basis. “That’ll be-”

Clara held out a crisp twenty pound note, silencing her, and the girl took it with a frightened squeak and set to work making the cocktail as instructed. The hairs on Clara’s neck suddenly stood up, and she turned her attention to the left, discovering a man in an ill-fitting suit affixing her with a look of great interest. Had she not known who he was, she might have dismissed him as a wannabe — someone trying to fit in where they should not be, or someone trying to make themselves appear something they were not. And yet there were clues to his true identity — his suit had an expensive sheen, and the two-foot radius of space that the milling crowd were giving him offered a deific air that was entirely in keeping with his true identity.

Victor Kennedy sidled along the bar, his mouth turning up into a leer as he set his sights on Clara. Not that she kept a bucket list — at least not anything concrete, and certainly not anything ascribed to paper — but, if she did, Kennedy would be near the top. The owner of a chain of lascivious members clubs in cities across the globe, he had an international reach and a bank balance to match. Seldom one to socialise, she had been in enough of his clubs with marks and heard enough whispers to establish that this was a man in firm need of a comeuppance, and tonight seemed as though it would be no different.

“Hello,” he said brightly, placing one hand, over-familiarly, on the small of her back and keeping his eyes firmly on her cleavage. Clara fought the urge to shudder. “My dear. I haven’t seen you here before, have I?”

“No,” Clara said, forcing herself to look haughty and distant. “I’ve only just moved back to London, and — I say, aren’t you Victor Kennedy? Of _Le Manoir_? Goodness, your clubs are a godsend on business trips. Can’t risk staying in some of those godawful local places — one of them actually had the nerve to try and serve me tap water. _Tap water._ It was like being in the Third World.”

Victor let out a hearty, booming laugh. “Well, you’ll have none of that in my clubs, my dear. Only the finest spring water imported from Switzerland. Where have you been working? I must be sure to pass on your compliments to the staff.”

“Oh, here and there. New York, San Francisco, Paris, Milan. I’ve just been over in Shanghai working on a project — Daddy works in marketing, you see, and I’ve taken over managing some of his little whimsical ideas.”

Victor nodded, obviously only half-listening to the tale. Clara had first spun it several months ago, with interchangeable cities and companies, and it had served her well ever since. “And you’re a member of _Le Manoir_?”

“Darling, I was an early adopter,” Clara forced herself not to look away from the odious man as she felt her glass be put into her hand. Tonight, she was not the sort of person to acknowledge the help any more than was necessary. “I told Daddy that it was going to be big, and we invested in the deluxe package memberships. One thing I must say, and I don’t wish to be impolite, is that your marketing leaves something to be desired. It’s making you look like you’d let any old riff-raff in, and we can’t have that, can we?”

“Of course not, not at all,” Victor smiled at her, licking his lips lasciviously, and once again she fought the urge to shudder. “I didn’t catch your name, I’m afraid…”

“Katherine,” Clara said at once, and he took her hand and pressed a kiss to it, affixing her with the kind of look that fully conveyed to her his intentions. “Katherine De Courcy.”

“A pleasure, a pleasure,” he hummed. “Katherine, I have a private room upstairs — why don’t we go and discuss your thoughts on marketing there?”

Clara knew full well that he had no intention of listening to her. He had no desire to hear her thoughts, or to know what her mind was capable of. She had met men like him before — men who pandered to women who stroked their egos, and the only thing they were ever interested in was taking such women to bed. The only thing many of them found more profoundly arousing than a woman who told them they were wonderful was a woman who told them the truth, and so Clara had crafted a personality to suit all occasions — she knew where to stroke an ego and she knew where to be sharp; she knew where to praise and where to criticise. With Kennedy, it seemed that he wanted to pretend to listen to her at least — pretend he was interested in her brains when, really, his only concern was getting her out of her dress and into bed with him.

Not that she could blame him — in anticipation of seeing Danny, she had picked this dress with care to ensure a… _successful_ ending to the night. The kind of ending that involved the two of them, probably in some seedy hotel room, but the locale didn’t matter — she needed only to ensure that he went to bed with her, to keep him sweet. That had gone less than accordingly to plan, but she supposed after tonight’s spontaneous job there was always the possibility of him demanding to see her again and her instigating an angry fuck, likely in public. It was not an ideal prospect, by any means, but it was better that than nothing.

Realising she had become lost in her thoughts and that Kennedy was still awaiting an answer, she gave a shallow little laugh and took a sip of her drink. “What a wonderful idea,” she enthused. “I do hope you’re ready for me to take you to task.”

 

* * *

 

Victor Kennedy had proved to be precisely the kind of man whose feigned interest in the thoughts and opinions of women melted away behind closed doors. Away from prying eyes, there had been flirting, and there had been some degree of pawing that Clara had both attempted to tolerate and minimise. The disadvantage of a private room had been the lack of distractions available to her to tamper with his drink, and so the suggestion had been made — far earlier than she would have liked — to return to his sprawling townhouse, a suggestion that he had gleefully welcomed.

There had been a taxi ride accompanied by more objectionable pawing, and then stumbling over the threshold and giggling in an asinine way that she would have found abjectly horrifying in other women. There had been her offer to make drinks and his gleeful deference to the idea — no doubt borne of his view of women knowing their place to be was that of servitude. Finding the bottles had been easy. Adding generous slugs of vodka to his drink? Even easier. Now, she looked down at him where she had bound him — spread-eagled on the bed, still clothed in his shirt and a pair of silk boxer shorts that probably cost more than her monthly rent — without a hint of pity or remorse. Each of his limbs was tied to an ornately carved bedpost with one of his own ties, and his lecherous smile was hidden from her by another — she had recognised the Eton logo as she wrapped it around his head with the cooing pretence of playing a game.

“You dumb bastard,” she spat, keeping her upper-crust accent as she spoke. “Did you really think I was interested? Did you really think I wanted your hands all over me? You’re vile, and you treat women like meat. The last time I had the misfortune to be in one of your clubs, I seriously considered burning it down — but I didn’t. Oh no, that would’ve been wasteful. No, I just… well, I just did the honest thing, and robbed my date, and then scratched my moniker into the headboard. That might have been a little boastful of me, but they don’t call me the Impossible Girl for nothing.”

Kennedy’s eyes widened, and he started trying to scream.

“Now, no silly noise, _my dear_. I won’t be longer than a few minutes. I’d advise not trying to thrash too much, those knots are unforgiving and I’d hate for you to lose a hand.”

She left him where he was, heading into his office — the idiotic, boastful fool had shown it to her upon arrival, as though touring the house were some kind of oddly specific foreplay — and setting to work. The safe was rejected as an object of interest at once — she recognised it was the kind she could never crack, and thus no use to her. Searching through the drawers of his desk proved more fruitful — she found a chequebook, swiftly spirited into her handbag, and a thick roll of cash that he probably considered “pocket money.” The only two remaining items of note were an external hard drive and a set of car keys. Cars were too traceable, especially in London, but data always fetched a good price…

Satisfied with her ill-gotten gains, she returned to the hallway and raided his wallet, emptying it of even more cash. Kissing her fingers and fluttering them in the direction of his bedroom, she stepped out of the front door, fixed a smile onto her face, and set off towards the nearest Tube station with a spring in her step.

Mentally, she started a countdown.

_OK, Danny. Your window to call me begins… now._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angered by her sister's continuing selfish behaviour, Bonnie makes her feelings known... in a less than subtle manner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those awaiting John... patience!

Clara had been reasonably certain that once word got out of her somewhat daring escapades regarding Victor Kennedy, Danny would call. Yet no word was forthcoming — she checked the news app on her phone so often that she used up her data — and nor was any phone call from the man who purported to care about her, at times too much so. Instead, there was nothing but stony silence on both fronts, and she couldn’t help but feel a bitter pang of disappointment that her illegal activities had provoked no response. With the ostensible intention of taking her mind off the matter, she carried out another two robberies over the space of a week, not that she could really call them that — raiding men’s wallets in the ladies’ loos in upmarket bars hardly counted, especially on a work night.

It had never been her intention, but increasingly her nocturnal weekend activities were becoming more and more like a second job. Her first was… well, she supposed it was socially commendable, and carried a degree of prestige. She had been young and naïve when she picked it, opting to utilise her English degree to train to become a teacher. Bright-eyed and buoyed by lies about the nation’s capital, she’d moved from her home town of Blackpool to the big city, only to find herself devoid of the job opportunities she’d been promised as the recession hit and the job market became a mean, hostile battle to find employment. Eventually shacking up in a position at a secondary school in Shoreditch, while she loved what she did on a day-to-day basis, it no longer inspired the same excitement and passion in her that she had once felt when she thought of her job, or great literature. The rush of adrenaline once provided by a new class of teenagers now instead stemmed from a robbery well done, and she had to admit that teaching was losing its sparkle. There were days she would mentally check out, leaving her students reading in silence for long periods simply to allow her mind to wander and jobs to be planned. She would smirk to herself as she thought of the things she had done — things that would have horrified her students, and their parents, and her employers — and her reputation as a bit of an oddball would increase as the rumour spread that Miss Oswald was smirking at nothing once again. Not that she cared — the weirder her students thought she was, the less they bothered her.

She supposed it was sad, really. She’d gone into teaching with such noble intentions, only now… now the lustre had dulled. There were fewer students to help — so reliant were they on each other and on smart technology, they had little time to consider her, a woman effectively so old to them that she was a dinosaur at twenty-seven. Still, she couldn’t seem to give it up. If nothing else, the role was a useful cover, and it provided something to do during the long hours of the day when her marks were running their FTSE-500 companies and screwing their secretaries. Sometimes — increasingly rarely — she even felt something of the old love for it, as she waxed lyrical about Austen or Hardy, but those moments were few and far between.

Still, she threw herself into teaching that week, determined not to sit around and wait for her activities to pique Danny’s interest, and, lo and behold, one miserable February evening, a text arrived.

_You really are a truly immoral, incorrigible piece of work, you know that?_

How she’d smirked at that. Danny was hardly one to talk, caught up as he was in his pseudo-relationship with her. The upstanding Detective Inspector Pink, chasing after a wanted woman. There was a bitter sense of irony in his condemnation of her, and she wanted to find the perfect words to tell him such. She thought about replying at once, second-guessed every word she could possibly use to craft a response, and then resorted to drinking wine with her female housemates instead. Replying would be tomorrow’s problem.

“Clara, you’ve been very… busy, this past week,” Amy mused, looking over the top of her glass at Clara with a smirk. Truthfully, Clara was surprised Amy was spending time with them at all — since her engagement to the awkward, aloof, and yet oddly sweet Rory some two months before, spare time had become a scant resource for Amy, who was using every spare moment to plan her wedding. It wasn’t to be an elaborate affair, but, for that reason, it must — in Amy’s eyes — be perfect. Clara felt a small stab of jealousy whenever she thought about tall, slender Amy in her wedding gown, auburn hair and cream skin complemented by a visionary dress of white satin, and not for the first time cursed her small stature. “You haven’t got a bit on the side, have you?”

“No,” Clara shot back at once, trying not to blush and failing spectacularly. “I’ve just had a lot on with school. It’s coming up to mock-exam season, and-”

“You’re blushing,” Martha noted, setting down her own glass and squinting at Clara through the atmospheric semi-gloom of the lounge. Living with a junior doctor had once seemed like a fun idea — now, her acute eye for the smallest physiological change was to prove her undoing. “You have got someone, haven’t you?!”

“No!” Clara said again, and it was then Bonnie interjected with glee.

“She does,” Bonnie said slyly, and Clara shot her twin a furious look in the hopes she might get the hint. “He’s good looking, too.”

She knew why her sister was doing this — it was retribution for the sudden uptick in her criminal activity. Telling the others about Danny was, to Bonnie, a fitting punishment; it enabled ensuing months of teasing, and a requirement to lie if she wanted to avoid giving her housemates the true reason for her numerous evening absences. Still, she made a mental note to have sharp words with her sister later.

“What’s his name?” Martha asked, leaning forward with a conspiratorial grin. “What does he do?”

“His name isn’t important,” Clara said at once, determined to avoid them looking him up on social media. She had made that mistake, once. A Facebook page littered with artistically shot portraits and quotes about going to the gym later, she’d felt nothing but a pang of guilt for corrupting him. “But he’s ah… he’s…”

“He’s a police officer. A detective inspector,” Bonnie said with a smirk, and Clara affixed her twin with the kind of look that adequately conveyed how much she wanted to murder her in that instant. “You love a man in uniform, don’t you Clara?”

“Detective inspectors don’t wear uniforms,” Clara muttered sourly, as Martha and Amy dissolved into _oohs_ and _ahhs_ and hysterical giggles. She’d never had time for such behaviour, and it irked her when others engaged in it. “And, no, I don’t.”

“You totally do. What about that doctor colleague of Martha’s?”

“You mean that weird guy who kept winking at her and talking about the air disappearing, then matched with her on Tinder and quoted Shakespeare at her? No thanks.”

“You fancied him,” Martha countered, regaining some of her ability to talk. “Everyone did. Does, frankly. Working with him is exhausting; half the women are trying to get in his pants.”

“Do you fancy him?” Clara asked, hoping to take the heat off herself, and it was Martha’s turn to flush maroon. “You do, don’t you?!”

“Shut up,” Martha mumbled, hooking her hair behind her ear and looking abjectly mortified. “He doesn’t even know I exist. Besides, one of the porters has the hots for me. Wants me to go for drinks with him.”

“That’s a bit of a downgrade, isn’t it?” Amy asked with a smirk, although Clara couldn’t tell whether it was malicious or not. Sometimes with Amy, it was hard to tell. “The doctor and the porter?”

“Bit rich coming from the ex-kissogram and the nurse,” Martha shot back, her voice measured and unreadable. “But sure.”

There was a brief pause, in which Clara wondered if the mood in the room was about to sour, but then Amy laughed. “Fair point. Is he as cute as the weird doctor guy?”

“I suppose so. He seems a bit more… me. Less posh. Less white. More cool.”

“Go for it,” Clara advised sagely, eager to follow this line of questioning to keep the attention away from her. “What’s his name?”

“Mickey.”

“Do not go for it,” Clara said at once, shaking her head with faux solemnity. “‘Mickey and Martha’ sounds like a crap kids TV show.”

“Excuse me, I think someone is just trying to change the subject,” Bonnie noted with a smug, self-important grin. “Remember? We were all being shocked that Clara isn’t made of stone? Fit detective inspector chap?”

“You can be a real bitch sometimes,” Clara snapped, having had enough of her sister’s needling. “You know that?”

“You can be a real cow, as well. Why don’t we tell the others the real reason you’ve been staying out so late on school nights? How would that be?”

Seeking to avoid her sister’s ensuing attack of honesty, Clara got to her feet and said, breathlessly: “I’ve been staying out until ludicrous times because my otherwise nameless DI has been working late, and it’s the only way I manage to ever get my leg over. OK?”

“What about-”

Clara threw the remains of her glass of wine over Bonnie and stalked out of the room, clenching her fists and biting down a scream of anger.

 

* * *

 

“Clara?”

The sound of her name being called was muffled by her bedroom door and the duvet she had pulled over her head.

“Clara, can I come in?”

“Fuck off,” she shouted back, knowing full well who it was and not relishing the prospect of having to speak to them. She sat up enough to glare at the door, as though her dark look could penetrate the wood. “No, you can’t.”

Despite her protestations, the door opened a crack and her twin poked her head into the room. She was wearing an oversized fluffy dressing gown, having apparently shed her wine-sodden clothes, and her expression was pleasingly apologetic.

“Hey,” she said quietly, taking Clara’s lack of angry response as a cue to sidle into the room fully. Clara rolled over, pointedly staring at the wall to avoid looking at her sister. “I, ah… I wanted to apologise.”

“Right.”

“I shouldn’t have said everything that I did. I was a little tipsy and I wanted to put one over on you, and that was wrong of me. I know Danny is a sensitive subject.”

“No kidding.”

“I just…” Bonnie’s voice cracked, and Clara turned back towards her despite her better judgement. It didn’t matter what had happened between them — if her sister was crying over her, she would listen. “I worry about you, Clara. I’m terrified something is going to happen while you’re out there doing what you do.”

“It won’t,” she muttered, her tone caught between mortification and apology. She had upset her sister — wanted to, even, but not like this — and she needed to reassure her. Taking Bonnie’s hand in hers, she gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I promise it won’t.”

“You can’t promise that, though, because your marks are autonomous human beings you have no control over.”

“Well, they’re usually tied up, which does make controlling them easier,” Clara joked, hoping it would elicit a smile, but the joke fell flat as Bonnie dissolved into hysterical tears. “Shit, sorry. Bon…”

“I still remember that first time you d-didn’t… and you c-came back… and you were all… all…”

“Hey,” Clara said more gently, reaching for her sister and folding her into a hug. “I was inexperienced and stupid back then. I know better now, and I do better now. No one has hurt me for a really long time; if anything, I’ve hurt them. All that taekwondo is paying off.”

“But wh-what if you get t-taken away?”

“I won’t.”

“I p-promised Mum…”

“I know what you promised Mum,” Clara murmured, stroking her sister’s hair and recalling the words the three of them exchanged many years before. “I promised her the same, remember?”

“But I w-worry about you,” Bonnie reiterated in a tremulous voice, clinging to Clara as though afraid to let go. “All the t-time. I can’t l-lose you.”

“You won’t,” Clara promised, closing her eyes and hating herself. “I swear to you, you will never lose me.”

“You can’t m-make promises like th-that.”

“Bonnie,” Clara met her twin’s gaze and gave her an encouraging smile. “I promise you that I will do everything in my power to make sure I always come back to you in one piece. I promise you that I will do everything in my power to always, always come back to you.”

“I love you,” Bonnie whispered, swiping a hand over her eyes. “But you scare me.”

“I’m sorry,” Clara breathed, pressing a kiss to her sister’s temple, not knowing what else to say. “I love you, too.”

“Just… please. Be a little careful.”

“I will,” Clara promised, knowing she would regret her words. “Oh, and Bon?”

“Mm?”

“Your hair smells of sauvignon blanc.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara decides to make a bold move to win Danny back, but instead her world is about to cave in...

_I’m the immoral one? Pot, kettle, black…_

_Also: incorrigible? Says the man who just can’t give me up?_

_Fine, if you want to ignore me, then you’ll see just how incorrigible I can be._

Clara looked down at the unanswered text messages on her phone, feeling — not for the first time — a stab of irritation at Danny and his ludicrous, ever-evolving complex set of morals. He wanted to call _her_ immoral, and yet he was the one whose job was to uphold the law. He was the one who should have had her in handcuffs all those months ago, and instead… well, there had been handcuffs involved, but purely of the fun variety. She didn’t have the time or energy to try and keep up with his constantly shifting moral compass, and frankly she had expected some kind of reply to her goading messages so that at least they could meet up and have a good old-fashioned argument in person, then have sex to make up. Instead, all she got was silence, and that, to Clara, was like a red rag to a bull.

Danny’s silence suggested to her that she needed to do something _big_. Something ostentatious, and something incredibly daring. She’d been pondering, in quiet moments as the kettle boiled or the microwave hummed away, what exactly she could do that would both piss Danny off while also putting her in close enough proximity to him to initiate something — anything — sexual by way of an apology, and she had hit upon the perfect solution. Which was why she was heading across the city wearing nothing but an oversized trench coat, wondering with each passing Tube station whether she had finally lost what remained of her sanity. It was an outlandish plan, and it was nothing if not playing a childish game, but still, if Danny wanted to behave like this, then she would give as good as she got.

Disembarking at Charing Cross and heading up the escalator, shivering as the icy February air crept under her coat, for the first time Clara felt a flutter of nerves at what she was about to do. Nerves, coupled with a heady rush of adrenaline — one that spurred her to break into a brisk walk once she stepped out onto the bustle of the Strand, heading east and then taking a sharp left until she was stood before the waxy limestone façade of the police station, staring up at the building with a sense of awe and unease. She had spent months trying to avoid such places, and yet Danny had brought her here once, early on. She still recalled her reticence back then; her fear that perhaps he was going to clap her in irons once she crossed the threshold. Instead, he had merely wanted to show off, and perhaps, at some base level, to frighten her. He had shown her the cells, and the evidence rooms, and, most importantly, his office. She still recalled the stuffy, airless room with no windows and what they had done in it, but, more importantly, she remembered how to get there through the rabbit warren of corridors.

Skirting the perimeter of the building, she located the cleaners’ entrance that Danny had used to smuggle her inside, stepping through the door and almost losing her nerve. There was a young man stood just inside the entrance staring down at his phone, but without looking up from his screen, he merely told her in a bored tone: “You’re late.”

“…Sorry,” Clara said after a second’s hesitation, trying to sound repentant. “Won’t happen again.”

She sidled past him before he could turn his attention towards her and set off into the maze of corridors she had tried to memorise during her previous visit. One left, two rights, and then… there it was. A dark mahogany door with a nameplate that she knew bore Danny’s name, and, with a smirk, she pushed the door open and stepped into the darkness within. She stole a glance at her phone as the door shut behind her, knowing it would be mere minutes until Danny reached the end of his shift and came back here to unwind with a coffee before heading home. She had once found his nature as a creature of habit dull and stuffy, but now? Now it would serve her well, and she offered a silent prayer that the Metropolitan Police had chosen such a predictable man to work her case.

Slipping off her coat and hanging it on the back of Danny’s chair, she arranged herself artfully on his desk, feeling both a shiver of exposure and a thrill of excitement as she did so. This was mad, and this was dangerous, and this was… well, she fought a smirk as she thought of how singularly _arousing_ it was to find herself naked and vulnerable in the heart of an institution that was baying for her blood. How they would howl to know what was about to happen.

Hearing approaching footsteps, Clara shook out her hair and shifted her pose slightly, adopting an exaggerated pout and feeling her heart race.

The door opened. The light was flicked on.

Clara let out a yelp of horror.

 

* * *

 

Detective Chief Inspector John Smith was not, in general, the kind of man who was prone to swearing. But finding a naked woman — an extremely attractive naked woman, part of his brain registered — on his desk at nine o’clock at night seemed like the kind of occasion to warrant such language.

“Who the fuck are you?!” he blurted, as the young woman half-leapt, half-fell off the desk and lunged for her coat, pulling it around herself just a _fraction_ too slowly to stop him from seeing… well, a lot. “And what the hell are you doing in my office?”

“ _Your_ office?” she asked in a panic, her eyes darting from him to the door and back again. Any thoughts he may have had about her being an as-yet-unknown colleague playing a prank evaporated — that look was one of a cornered animal, and it was enough to rouse his suspicions. “No, this is Dan- Detective Inspector Pink’s office.”

“Was,” he said flatly, planting his feet and resolving not to move from in front of the door. Her chest began to rise and fall as he watched her panic intensify, wondering who she could be and what she wanted. “It _was_ DI Pink’s office. Do you know him?”

“Could say that. Who are you?”

“Not Detective Inspector Pink, patently,” he said, without amusement. The two of them could not have been more different — he had seen photos of the younger man, and they had nothing in common. John was tall and lanky, whereas DI Pink’s frame was stocky and muscled; John’s hair was unruly and already silver, a stark contrast to Danny’s neatly clipped style; and, lastly, John had a good two decades of experience on DI Pink, whose enthusiasm had almost made up for his occasional incompetence. “I repeat, who might you be?”

“A…” a look of terror passed over her face, and she said, tremulously: “A friend of his.”

“Do you sit naked on a lot of your friends’ desks?”

She let out a mirthless laugh, wringing her hands together. “Please can I just go?”

“I don’t know. _Can_ you?”

“That’s supposed to be my line.”

“Meaning?”

“Nothing,” she swallowed, one hand slipping into her pocket, and he didn’t need to be a genius to work out that there was some kind of concealed weapon or device in there, undoubtedly designed to incapacitate an attacker. Was he an attacker? Was he truly the threat here? “Can I please go?”

“I don’t know,” he didn’t move from his position in front of the door, folding his arms. “That would depend on you being honest with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can’t be here to see DI Pink, so tell me the truth.”

“Why can’t I?” she lifted her chin defiantly, affixing him with a steely glare as some of her fear visibly ebbed. “If you must know, he’s my boyfriend.”

“Ah. Didn’t quite catch your name.”

“Katherine,” she said at once, her over-eagerness betraying what he suspected to be a lie. “Katherine Reynolds. He must have mentioned me.”

“I wouldn’t know,” John shrugged. “Only arrived yesterday. Fresh off the boat, me.”

“Who are you? And why are you in DI Pink’s office?”

“I thought I was the one asking questions,” he said quietly, reaching into his pocket for his warrant card. He saw the woman’s hand clench in her own pocket, and he rolled his eyes as he extracted the small leather wallet, opening it and holding it at arm’s length. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector John Smith. Metropolitan Police, as of yesterday.”

“And before yesterday?”

“You don’t need to know that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a liar, and I don’t tell liars my life story.”

“How…” she began, frowning at his words. “What do you mean? I’m not lying, I’m Danny’s girlfriend. Fetch him, and he’ll tell you.”

“There would be a problem with that,” John said wearily, running his hand through his hair and sighing. “A really big problem.”

“Which is?” she looked — for the first time — genuinely angered by his obstructiveness.

“What kind of girlfriend doesn’t know about her own boyfriend’s death?” he mused, and her face fell.

“You’re lying,” she said fiercely, her eyes filling with tears despite her denial. “Danny isn’t dead. He can’t be. He texted me.”

“He’s dead,” John shrugged. “But I guess you must have known that, being his girlfr-”

“Shut up,” her hand whipped out of her pocket, revealing a four-inch blade clutched between shaking fingers and confirming his suspicions. Approaching him, she held the knife ahead of her as though it were a gun, trembling like a leaf, and while the instinct to disarm her was strong, his desire to uncover the truth was stronger. “Shut up, you don’t know what you’re talking about. This isn’t funny. Tell Danny this isn’t funny.”

“Katherine — if that’s even your real name, which I suspect it isn’t,” John held up his hands submissively, trying to look meek and unthreatening, while also conveying that he wouldn’t tolerate any violence. “I’m sorry, but he was killed.”

With surprising strength and speed, and despite him being nearly a foot taller, she backed him against the wall, placing the knife against his throat as her eyes darted around the room, her breath coming in short pants as she lost herself to her own panic once again. “How?” she asked. “How, and when?”

“Two days ago,” John managed, trying to cringe away from the cold metal blade for self-preservation’s sake. “His vehicle was hit during a car chase.”

“He hated car chases. He wouldn’t have engaged in one.”

“It wasn’t him doing the pursuing. The suspect came out of a side road; T-boned his vehicle. It was instant. I’m sorry.”

The fight went out of her at once and she sagged backwards — he thought for one awful moment that she might be about to pass out, and readied himself to catch her. Instead, she took several hesitant steps back until her legs hit the desk, and she crumpled onto it, her fury fading as quickly as it had come on.

“He’s really…”

“Dead, yeah,” he realised abruptly that he may have been a touch unfeeling with her before, and awkwardly added: “I’m… I’m sorry.”

She let out a strangled sob, and then, conversely, a bitter laugh. “Don’t even know why I’m crying. It’s not like he ever really cared, or like I did.”

“I thought he was-”

“It’s complicated. Was. Was complicated.”

“Are you-”

“I’m fine,” she snapped, dragging the hem of her sleeve over her eyes. “Really, fine.”

“I…” the lingering sense of suspicion he had felt since she had first asked to see DI Pink crystallised into something more concrete. “You’re her.”

“I’m who?”

“ _Her_.”

“Stop playing games and just tell me who you think I am, or so help me-”

“The Impossible Girl.”

Her face contorted into a look of horrified fury, and then the punch came out of nowhere, faster than he could even begin to process the movement, let alone respond.

The last thing John saw before he lost consciousness was the door slamming behind her.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It can't be true... can it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, they've finally met... what now?

Was it true? Could Danny really be dead? He had always been so vibrantly full of life that it seemed anathematic to consider him as anything other than vividly, beautifully alive. How could he be dead? It was impossible. It was beyond improbable. It was absurd. There was no way he could be. He hated car chases, he hated driving, he wouldn’t have been near to one. He was a cautious driver to the point of being maddeningly slow, he could not have been blindsided by some criminal’s dangerous driving. This was all a mistake. This was all wrong. It had to be some kind of sick joke executed by Danny as a punishment for her becoming increasingly reckless. It had to be to teach her a lesson — he’d got a colleague to play the part and give her a scare.

As she walked blindly along the Strand towards the Tube station, she fumbled for her phone, determined to seek the truth online. Google would know. BBC News would know. The Internet would set her mind at rest. She would find out the truth, here and now, and then she would go back to the station and give Danny a piece of her mind for even daring to play such a cruel joke. “John Smith.” It was a pitiful alias on his colleague’s part; one without a modicum of credibility. A lazy nickname used by a lazy prankster, unbothered by creating a veneer of veracity.

_Please turn on mobile data to access Safari._

It was then that Clara remembered the constant refreshing of her news apps, what felt like weeks before. She remembered the small, insignificant text telling her she had used up her monthly data allowance. She remembered shrugging it off as not being a big deal.

Now? Now it was the end of the world, and it was only her willpower that stopped her from flinging the phone under the wheels of the nearest double decker bus. She could go to a coffee shop — there had to be a Starbucks open somewhere; the green logo was so endemic in London that it was impossible to get away from. There was that or there was McDonalds, but then, if the news was true… she couldn’t consider that. She couldn’t consider breaking down in public, and the police being called to deal with her. She knew that would end only one way, and that would be with her in a cell.

She would have to swallow the agony of not knowing and wait until she arrived home to discover the truth. Clenching her fists until her nails bit into her palms, she headed into the Tube station, trying to maintain an outwardly calm exterior as she descended into the claustrophobic embrace of the Underground. She would remain composed. She would breathe. She would wait.

She could, she supposed, always text her sister to enquire about what had happened, but somehow the idea of Bonnie finding out before her seemed wrong, and so she swallowed down the tears that were burning at the back of her throat and took a seat in the corner of a carriage. She needed something to do. She needed something to focus on, other than the panic burning its way through her and the uncomfortable, jarring feel of her bare skin against the lining of her coat. It had been such a stupid, moronic plan. Why hadn’t she just been the bigger person? Why hadn’t she just phoned Danny and apologised, instead of sending him stupid insolent text messages? What if they had been the last things he had read before he died? What if the last words he had ever read or heard from another human being had been her stupid, petty bitter torments? He would have gone to the grave feeling unwanted and unloved, and-

And that was in itself an uncomfortable thought, as her brain encountered the word “unloved” and mentally stumbled. Had she loved him? She couldn’t have done; he was a mere convenience. Or rather, he had been a mere inconvenient thing that she had needed to do to maintain her liberty, only then things had grown and he had come to see her as… what? A girlfriend? A love interest? She had never bothered to ask him, too intent was she on the illicit nature of their relationship and his role as a means to an end. As long as she offered up her body to him he would conveniently disappear what needed to be disappeared; she had never thought to talk about him, or to seek out his life story. She had never thought to treat him like a person, and that thought alone made her want to vomit.

She prayed that this was all a mistake. She prayed and she prayed and she prayed, in a manner she had not done since primary school, when she had sat in assembly with hundreds of other children, fervently praying for silly things like world peace or the latest toy for Christmas. She prayed she had not just exposed herself to danger, in more ways than one. She prayed that John Smith — whoever he might be — might be as amenable to her particular form of bribery as Danny had been, if necessary. She prayed, prayed, prayed that he was wrong.

She began to pick at her nails subconsciously, using her thumbnail to chip away the red nail varnish she had painted on with such care that morning. Scarlet for seduction. Scarlet for sex. Scarlet for… blood. She turned her attention to her cuticles, lifting and worrying and scratching at the skin until she was bleeding; bleeding the same blood Danny probably had when he had been hit, the same blood that must have painted the road and stained the inside of his car, the same blood that must have been hosed away by passive firefighters as they shook their heads about the sheer waste of it all-

She closed her eyes.

He couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t.

The thought sustained her for the rest of the journey as she kept picking at her nails, ripping the skin apart and then raising her fingers to her mouth when the blood threatened to spill over the ridges of her fingertips and stain her coat. Scarlet streaks. Scarlet lipstick. Scarlet blood.

She tried not to think about a car crumpling. She tried not to think about an airbag inflating, uselessly cushioning an already-lifeless body. She tried not the think about his dead eyes, staring out into the street, eternally doomed to wonder why she seemed to meet his attempts at compassion with overt hostility.

The journey seemed to take an eternity, but she finally stumbled over the threshold of the house, staring down at her phone’s screen as she waited for the WiFi to connect. One second passed. Two seconds. Three seconds. Four-

The three grey bars lit up, and she opened Google with a shaking hand, perching on the stairs by way of a seat and typing in the words. It took four attempts to spell his name right, and she couldn’t bring herself to add “car crash,” so she searched for him, and his title, and then froze as she read the top result thrown up by the search engine.

_Police officer killed by stolen car thief._

She needed to read it. She knew she needed to read it, to know what had happened and fulfil her craving for information, and yet her thumb hovered over the screen as she found herself caught in the inertia of horror.

“Come on,” she muttered aloud, trying to steel herself for what she was about to read. “Do it.”

She pressed down and then closed her eyes, taking a deep breath before looking down at the article she had clicked on.

_One man has been arrested after the death of a police officer in Vauxhall on Wednesday afternoon._

_Detective Inspector Daniel Pink, 29, was on his way to a callout when his vehicle was hit at 13:43 GMT on the driver’s side by a stolen black Mercedes-Benz GL that was being pursued by two patrol cars. A 19-year-old man has been arrested for causing death by careless driving, as well as driving under the influence of alcohol._

_The Metropolitan Police have released a statement praising Detective Inspector Pink as being a compassionate and well-loved officer who was dedicated to his job and served the force with courage and integrity. He is not survived by any living relatives._

_Any witnesses are urged to contact the Met on 101, quoting incident number 326693323._

Dropping the phone with a clatter, she curled up into a ball, wrapping her arms around her legs and starting to cry — loud, noisy sobs that shook her whole body.

“Clara?”

Her twin’s voice was wonderfully, warmly welcome, and Clara turned towards it with childlike need, holding her arms out like she had done when she was very small.

“Clara, what happened?” Bonnie descended the stairs to where Clara was sat, wrapping her arms around her and letting her sister cling to her like a lifeline. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s dead,” Clara managed, the words weighed with a damning finality as they left her mouth. “He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s really dead…”

“Who’s dead?” Bonnie asked, stroking her hair and letting her sob until she felt able to explain.

“Danny,” she whispered, her voice tremulous. “Danny… he… there was an accident…”

“Oh, Clara,” Bonnie’s voice shook with compassion, and she held onto her sister as she sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”

“He’s… this is my fault, I shouldn’t have… I should’ve just been the bigger person and phoned him but he died thinking I was this awful person and I hated him and I just… I feel awful and I don’t know why, I didn’t think I cared but I think I must have done and I’m so confused and my chest hurts, Bon,” Clara wept, rocking backwards and forwards in her sister’s arms. “And I don’t know what this means now, but I’m scared. I’m scared they’re going to find me; I’m scared I’m going to prison. There’s no one keeping me safe.”

“Maybe it’s time to stop,” Bonnie soothed, pressing a kiss to her sister’s temple. “Even just for a little while.”

“You’ve changed your tune.”

“Now isn’t the time to argue,” Bonnie reminded her in a gentle tone. “Now is the time for you to breathe, and to mourn, and that’s alright.”

“But it isn’t alright, I don’t understand! I thought he was just a convenient shag, I thought I was being selfish and using him, so why… why does this hurt so much? Why do _I_ hurt so much?”

“Because you aren’t made of stone,” Bonnie said simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, and Clara knew that her sister’s words were true, no matter how much she had willed herself to be impassive. “You have a heart, underneath it all, and you care about people. You pretend you don’t, but you do. I know you do, remember? I’ve seen it.”

“I’m a horrible person,” Clara wailed, and Bonnie patted her back reassuringly, although did not try to counter the assertion.

“I love you,” her twin reminded her instead, and somehow that seemed like a condemnation in itself — that Bonnie had not sought to deny Clara’s words. “Alright? Always have, always will.”

“You wouldn’t if you knew what I’d done.”

“I know what you’ve done, babe. Remember?”

“I flashed a DCI this evening,” Clara sniffed, caught between amusement and embarrassment at the memory. “I was sat on a desk naked and he-”

“Did you _break into a police station_?!”

“No, I walked in the cleaner’s entrance,” Clara mopped at her eyes with her sleeve, attempting a flippant eyeroll as she did so. “And sat on D-D… _his_ desk naked, and then a man walked in who I didn’t know. I think he saw… well, everything.”

“You are, in all honesty, an absolute idiot,” Bonnie said with a sigh, but there was a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. “And mad, to boot. Let’s get you upstairs, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And in clothes other than — are you wearing any?”

“No,” Clara mumbled miserably. “Just the coat.”

“Well, let’s get you into some comfortable clothes. And then we’ll take things from there.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As her confusion and grief intensifies, Clara makes a surprisingly measured decision.

Clara had, in moments of idleness in the time before, often wondered what she would do if she broke things off with Danny, or if — unlikely, but still, a consideration — he had been the one to end it. Much of her considerations had centred around revenge, based on the assumption that she may find herself unceremoniously dumped when placed in direct opposition with Danny’s faltering moral compass; she had thought about all the petty ways she could make him suffer for heartlessly abandoning her to her criminal activity. One thing she had never considered was this. She had never had a back-up plan, or wondered what might happen if things ended more tragically because… well, as she had so often reasoned, this wasn’t America, or the kind of place where police officers were routinely killed. This was the UK; it was safe, the police were well-respected, and fatalities among the emergency services were usually low.

 _Usually_.

She had, perhaps naïvely, assumed that, because Danny didn’t carry a weapon, he would be safe. She had thought that his background in the social care system and the armed forces would give him an advantage when it came to relating to members of the local community who might otherwise prove hostile. She had never thought that, of all things, a car would be what killed him. Nothing more exciting or interesting, no; just a car. She passed hundreds of them every day on her way to work or the shop or a job — innocuous, multicoloured boxes of metal, glinting in the sun or the amber glare of streetlights. Just cars. Just means of getting from A to B. Just a way to kill a police officer, unsuspecting and unprepared.

She couldn’t even look at the commonplace vehicles for a long time. Couldn’t step outside; couldn’t face the things that had taken Danny away from her. That was a strange thought, when it came — the idea that he had been, in some way, “hers,” and now he was not. Had he been? Had she had any sense of protectiveness over him? He had been sweetly naïve and, at times, vulnerable, but she had never felt a tug in her stomach when she thought of him; had never experienced a lurching sense of worry for his well-being as he recounted his daily exploits to her in a bid to win her favour. She had never felt the trappings of a relationship before, but now she was questioning herself. Had it been? Had it been more than a casual, convenient fling for her? She had known how he felt, certainly, but from her perspective? She had never thought to stop and think.

She thought about discussing the matter with her sister, but, afraid that Bonnie might judge her or pass comment on her treatment of Danny, Clara instead remained silent. She phoned her school and lied about being unwell, then retreated to her room for hours at a time, caught up in her own thoughts as she lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

She should have treated Danny with more kindness. He might have been a police officer and she might be a criminal, but he was still human. He still deserved basic decency, even though the thought was uncomfortable — it was uncomfortable to have to think that, if police were human, then the same courtesy ought to perhaps be extended to her marks, so she tried not to dwell on the sentiment often. Instead, there were arguments with him she wished she could undo; words she wished she could unsay; nights when he clearly wanted to talk, but she had instigated other things instead. She should have listened to him. She should have tried to be — if nothing else — his friend. But she had been too stubborn and too selfish and too driven by her own interests to ever consider that he might be as lonely as she felt.

Because the truth of it was — although she was too afraid to admit it, for fear of invoking her sister’s accusations that she was not being counted — that she was lonely. She had passed it off for many years as simply being _alone_ , but now… well, now she understood what she had been so quick and fervent to deny. She lacked friends, other than her housemates, and the rest of her family were hundreds of miles away. She had found it hard to trust others even _before_ arriving in London and before subsequently embarking upon her life of crime, but now? Now she hadn’t the energy or inclination to lie to new acquaintances about her whereabouts and her activities. She hadn’t had the desire to expand her social circle before, but now, as she found herself adrift in her grief, she resented her past self’s decision. She wanted someone to console her. She wanted someone to tell her she would be alright. And yet… that was the one thing she knew she could never have, because to explain the situation would invoke judgment and loathing and the full weight of the Metropolitan Police.

Even her housemates were largely in the dark, the lie being that she had lost an acquaintance, and thus they were tiptoeing around her as though afraid she might shatter into a million fragile pieces. She did not want to be treated as though she were made of glass. She did not want to be handled with kid gloves. She wanted to feel normal and she wanted to feel valued. Instead she was left with only a profound sense of alienation that compounded her loss and robbed her of the ability to speak, or function, or feel. Bonnie brought her food, which she ate without tasting; Bonnie brought her cups of tea, which she drank mechanically; Bonnie reminded her gently when to shower. But otherwise? Otherwise, she did nothing beyond what was expected of her. She retreated into herself as she had before, many years prior when she had suffered her first true loss.

She still recalled the hushed corridors of the hospital, and the agonised, pitying looks of the doctors as they looked at her and Bonnie, eighteen years old, full of life, sat by their mother’s bedside watching the life ebb out of her. There had been some degree of warning, then. They might never have voiced it aloud, but they had both known, in their heart of hearts, that she wouldn’t survive. When the moment came, it was almost a relief to know she was no longer suffering and no longer trapped by the broken, failing remains of a body that, by the end, no longer resembled her own. There had been time to say goodbye, and time to emotionally fortify themselves — or so they thought — for what they were about to experience. They had been wrong, of course, because there is no way to prepare for losing a parent, regardless of your age or your perceived level of maturity, but still — they had expected it. She had been unwell for so long that it had become an inevitable, barely talked-about conclusion.

With Danny, there had been no warning. Only a fight, and cruel words, and then silence. Silence, not only for now, but for always. She had used him, and she had hurt him, and she would never have the ability to make that up to him. Her self-loathing condensed, and concentrated, and crystallised, until she could barely look at herself in the mirror without wanting to scream in rage at the woman she saw reflected there.

Although she would not had admitted it aloud, and barely even admitted it to herself in the privacy of her own thoughts, something else was playing on her mind alongside the unwanted, unanticipated grief: worry. She knew it was selfish, and yet she could not help herself — she supposed human instinct was to worry about Number One, and so she let herself worry from time to time. She had known Danny and won his trust; she had spent countless days and weeks and months developing an understanding with him, and it had been convenient, yes, if only because it meant that her exposure to the police’s investigations were limited. He had been amenable to suggestion and willing to keep her safe from the full impetus of the Met’s investigation, a knowledge she had exploited on more than one occasion, but now he was gone… her mind kept flashing back to the unknown DCI she had found in Danny’s office, who had seen her at her most vulnerable. The nudity was not a worry to her — plenty of people had seen her disrobed, and it meant little to her to be without her usual trappings. What concerned her was that she had shown emotion, and that was something she could not afford to do.

She was wanted, and she was considered dangerous. Dangerous women did not cry. Dangerous women did not get choked up. Dangerous women were cold and emotionless; they didn’t worry about stupid things such as the feelings of others. They acted in their own self-interest and behaved like machines, unable to comprehend lowly things such as sadness or despair — such was the image she wanted to give out. Only… only now this stranger knew that she was bothered by the spectrum of human emotion, and while she had perhaps redeemed herself in his eyes by knocking him unconscious, he would still be able to use that against her. He would still be able to play on her feelings to try and gain the upper hand, and she had no doubt that the police would now seek to use Danny’s death as a weapon.

She had been a fool to go to the police station, and a fool to lie and state that Danny had been her boyfriend. Not only had she doomed herself, but, far worse — she had exposed him as being linked to her, and revealed him to have been less than the 100% honest police officer he had always striven to be. Undoubtedly now there would be investigations, and reports, and enquiries; all of which would draw attention not only to her, but to Danny’s investigation, and, worse still, into Danny himself. He had never had a family, and for that she was suddenly grateful — there would be no one other than friends and colleagues to witness the inevitable character assassination that would come following his untimely death. A double whammy of horror for all who knew him, and at least partly her fault — although sometimes wholly, depending on the degree of self-pity and self-hatred she felt.

An idea began to form in her mind, one driven by desperation and a need to preserve not only her own safety, but also the sanctity of Danny’s memory. He wasn’t a bad man, or a bad police officer. He wasn’t the kind of man who deserved to have his life put under a microscope, and she would not allow the police to inflict that upon his memory. She had seduced him, and she was the one to blame — so she would be the one to make things right. She would be the one to make amends, and to do that… well, there was only one way that she knew of to do that, so she would do it.

Which is how it came to be that she found herself stood in front of her bedroom mirror one gloomy winter morning, running a brush through the blonde wig she knew Danny had so admired and wondering whether her black dress would seem out of place or not. She had striven to find details of the event online, but there had only been a small note about the time and venue — nothing more, and that alone had broken her heart. There was no one to report on his wishes. There was no one to add thoughtful words about his memory. There was only someone bored and underpaid, typing the words in in such a hurry that they had even somehow managed to misspell his name.

Still, she would do the right thing. She recalled how, from that time before, and so she’d thought about flowers, thought about notes, but settled for a modest donation to a charity instead. It seemed more practical than spending the money on flowers that would surely only wilt and die without bringing solace to anyone but strangers, and so she did what she could financially as her contribution to Danny’s memory. That, and what she was about to do.

The bedroom door opened without warning and Bonnie backed inside, carrying a tray upon which a mug of tea was arranged artfully beside a plate of toast and a bright bloom in a small vase. Clara felt a rush of love for her sister, whose determination to jolt her out of her melancholy had never wavered over the previous week.

“Morning,” her twin trilled, turning around and taking in the sight of her sister with a look of such abject horror that it was a wonder the items didn’t crash to the floor. Clara thought for one horrible moment that they might, but then Bonnie steadied herself, swallowing before saying in a hushed voice: “Oh, dear god.”

“No, just me.”

“You’re… you’re really…”

“Going to the funeral? Yes, I am.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While attending Danny's funeral, Clara comes face to face with someone horribly familiar...

As she sat in the back of a taxi, speeding towards Danny’s funeral service, Clara took a deep breath and tried not to allow herself to panic too intensely. Panic would not be conducive if she needed to get out of there, and so she tried to force herself to stop trembling as she acknowledged that this was an insane idea, even by her standards. This was far more dangerous than sneaking into a police station, or even what she did on a weekly basis. She would be in close proximity to tens of police officers — she hoped, at least for Danny’s sake, that attendance would be high — yet all she could hope for was that they would be too caught up in the grief to notice her, quiet and meek, sat towards the back of the room. That was her aspiration, at least — arrive at the last possible second without being late, slip into a seat, and then leave early. She owed Danny that much.

Twisting her hands together in her lap as they approached the grimy inner-city church where the service was to be held, she tried to resist the urge to pick at her cuticles. There was little point to making herself bleed, even if the pain of ripping at her skin would give her something to focus on other than the rising sense of panic in her chest. Was it too late to return home? Was it too late to call Bonnie, stick her in another brightly coloured wig and drag her along as moral support? Was it too late to-

“We’re here, love,” the taxi driver said gruffly from the front seat, jolting her out of her reverie. “That’s fifteen pounds eighty, thanks.”

Handing the money over with a trembling hand, something about her manner and the gloomy destination must have betrayed the reason for her trip. The driver looked at her with pity, adding more gently: “Urm, sorry for your loss. Was it someone… you know, close?”

“My, ah…” Clara felt tears burn her eyes. How could she even begin to explain? There was only one way that he could possibly understand, and her mouth formed the lie before her brain could think anything more of it: “My boyfriend.”

“Oh, shit,” he mumbled, handing her back half the fare at once. “Here. You need this more than I do.”

“It’s…” Clara looked at the proffered note and neat little pile of coins, thinking it seemed little recompense for a life lost. “Really, it’s-”

“Don’t be silly. Take it, and go and have a drink in his memory, yeah?”

“Thanks,” she whispered, taking the money and clenching her fist around it as though it were a talisman. “Thank you, really.”

She clambered out of the car before he could speak again, slamming the door behind her and looking up at the building she now stood in front of. It wasn’t anything spectacular, and it was unadorned by the gothic or Victorian trappings of many of the older churches in London, but she supposed it would have to do. Brushing invisible specks of lint off her dress, she took a deep breath and was on the verge of crossing the pavement and heading inside when a uniformed senior officer brushed past her, sending her anxiety levels skyrocketing and shocking her into taking an instinctive step back.

_I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t have come, this was a terrible idea-_

A hand snagged her wrist firmly, pulling her out of the road and out of the path of the oncoming car that she had failed to notice in her blind panic. Behind her, a horn blared a furious rebuke for her carelessness.

“Careful, now,” a Scottish voice chided, and she felt her panic intensify as the owner of the hand turned to face her. DCI John Smith blinked down at her owlishly, visibly disconcerted to once again find himself face to face with the woman he had found sat on his desk the previous week. Despite her terror, she noticed a fading greenish bruise on his temple, and felt a small stab of pride. “ _You_.”

“Yes, me,” she snapped, her panic fading as suddenly as it had flared and instead cool, calm composure settling over her. “Nice bruise.”

“I could clap you in handcuffs now,” he breathed, failing to relinquish his hold on her. “And not a soul would blame me.”

“Steady now,” she hissed, twisting her arm out of his grasp and clenching her fists. “Won’t you at least buy me dinner first?”

“Have you no shame?”

“Why should I?”

“Oh, please. All that nonsense you fed me about being Daniel-”

“Danny.”

“-Danny’s girlfriend. I looked into it. There wasn’t any record of any next of kin in his HR file, but do you know what I did find?”

“Do enlighten me,” Clara said with studious disinterest, feeling her heartbeat accelerate as she spoke. “I’m sure it’s fascinating.”

“A lot of missing evidence relating to your case.”

“Really?” Clara arched an eyebrow disdainfully, but her stomach was churning. This had been what she was so afraid of — the cross-examination of Danny’s actions, and the inevitable judgments that followed. “How intriguing.”

“It was rather enlightening. Now, tell me — was he corrupt for the sake of it, or did you have something to do with it?”

“Detective Chief Inspector,” she widened her eyes in mock horror. “I’m sure I don’t know _what_ you mean.”

“Did you fuck him?” he growled, and she raised her eyebrows, surprised by his casual use of the crude term. “Is that why he somehow managed to fail to bring you in?”

“It might have had something to do with it, yes.”

“And you had the gall to pass yourself off as his girlfriend,” he let out a bitter yelp. “God, you truly are a piece of work.”

“Well, ‘the woman riding his dick’ didn’t have quite the same ring to it,” Clara forced herself to shrug nonchalantly. “What was I meant to say?”

“You are just…” he shook his head, as though doing so might reveal someone more appropriately mannered and moral in front of him. “Really something else.”

“Much as I would love to stand here and exchange barbs with you,” Clara snapped, bored of the sniping. “There is a funeral service starting in five minutes that I would very much like to attend.”

“You’re joking, right?” he looked at her with wide-eyed bemusement. “You want to go in there? Into a room full of police officers?”

“Yes.”

“Why?!”

“Because maybe I’m not the completely awful human you seem to think I am,” she rolled her eyes. “Maybe I actually feel some remorse. Come on, you know I’m not made of stone-”

“No, I’ve seen enough of you to ascertain that you’re just flesh and blood,” DCI Smith smirked. “Thanks.”

“Shut up,” she shot back. “I want to pay my respects to him. Is that so wrong?”

“Are you completely mad?”

“No.”

“This is… you can’t do this!”

“Please,” she begged, swallowing thickly as she realised that there was a very real threat of DCI Smith stopping her from entering the church, and thus robbing her of this final opportunity to do the right thing. “Please, just let me say goodbye to him and try to make up for not being the nicest person to him and after that, you can do what you like.”

“Can I arrest you?”

“You can try,” she told him honestly. “You can absolutely try.”

“Fine,” he acquiesced with a shrug. “Deal.”

She let out a small sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

“I will be by your side for the entire service. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes _what_?”

“Jesus, what kind of power trip are you on?” she rolled her eyes. “Yes, _Detective Chief Inspector Smith_.”

“I was going for, ‘Yes, I understand,’ but sure, do keep repeating my name with such wonderful condescension.”

Before she could respond, two officers garbed in their dress uniforms passed them on their way into the church and shot them a curious look. “You OK, mate?” one called.

“Yeah,” he flashed them an apologetic grin. “This young lady is an old acquaintance of Danny’s from his younger days. She’s a touch upset.”

“Are you alright, love?” one asked, fumbling through his pockets, and the action alone was enough to cause her to freeze up. When he eventually located what he wanted and held it out, however, it turned out to be nothing more dangerous than a pocket handkerchief, which she accepted with a grateful smile.

“Thank you,” she said with sincerity. “I’ll be alright.”

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” DCI Smith said helpfully. “We’ll sit at the back, where it’s quieter.”

The officers nodded understandingly and headed inside as Clara shot John a dark look. “Really?” she hissed. “I’m the bad person, but you’re the one lying to your colleagues?”

“When I bring you in, I can claim that you managed to lie to me as well,” he shrugged. “That’s going to be a lot easier to explain than the fact I let you sit through the bloody service out of…”

“Out of what?”

“God knows. Duty?”

“To what? The Met?” she snickered. “Yeah, great.”

“Shut up. Get inside, and sit down.”

“Yes, officer.”

“And don’t call me that.”

 

* * *

 

To John’s considerable amazement, the unknown woman — he sincerely doubted her claim, from their previous encounter, to be called Katherine — seemed genuinely contrite and bereaved for the duration of the service. She cried silently, occasionally dabbing at her cheeks with the handkerchief his superior officer — he thought; he was still too new to be sure — had given her when the tears gathering at her jaw threatened to drip onto her dress. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t the stoic, upright woman who sat beside him, refusing to sob aloud and yet still expressing her grief at the loss of Danny.

She was a criminal, he tried to remind himself. She had played people before, and she was playing him now.

Or was she? There was something about the look in her eyes that disconcerted him; a veracity and authenticity to the loss she was feeling that wrongfooted him entirely. He did not, as a rule, expect criminals to be quite so… genuine.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, as the coffin was carried down the central aisle, out to the waiting hearse, and the congregation got to their feet. “What’s going to happen…”

“Oh. Urm. Cremation. I think.”

“Oh,” she let out a pained gasp of shock. “I was hoping…”

“That there might be somewhere you could visit?” he asked, his tone more gentle than either of them were expecting. He was unsure where the words had come from, but they seemed be what she meant.

“Something like that, yeah,” she mumbled. “I… I just need a moment.”

She started to move away, and he felt suspicion pool in the pit of his stomach, insidious and heavy. “Why?”

“Because one, my eye makeup is all over my face; two, Danny is about to be stuck in a giant oven; and three, I need to use the toilet.”

“Oh,” he tried to swallow back some of his concern. “Well, ah… Kate?” he hissed to his superior, who was stood several feet away and was deep in conversation with one of the forensics team. She broke away from her discussion and approached the two of them with a look of polite confusion, evidently baffled by the young woman at his side.

“This is… Katherine,” he forced himself to say, placing a hand on the woman’s arm and trying his utmost to look concerned. “An old friend of Danny’s. She’s not feeling too well, could you possibly take her to the loo?”

“Of course,” Kate said, her expression becoming one of great sympathy, and John wished that there was some way to convey to her precisely who it was that she was about to be escorting to the bathroom; some way to convey that she needed to clap the woman in handcuffs at the earliest opportunity. “Come on, let’s go see if we can find you some tissues and a glass of water.”

As they moved out of sight, John shifted from foot to foot, trying not to let paranoia consume him. Kate wasn’t stupid — she wouldn’t let a grieving woman out of her sight. And the woman would be a fool to try anything — not only was Kate one of the best officers he had ever met, but she was surrounded by the massed force of the Met, all of whom would not hesitate to come down on the woman like a ton of bricks, funeral or no funeral.

John took a deep breath, trying not to allow himself to become overly paranoid. “It’ll be fine,” he muttered under his breath. “It’ll all be fine.”

Moments later, Kate returned. “What a lovely young woman,” she said brightly. “I think she’ll be alright, it’s all just been a bit of a shock.”

“I…” John gaped at her as he realised that she was alone. “Where is she?”

“She had to get to work,” Kate frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” John groaned, realising that he had been tricked. “Never mind.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to get his head around the sheer scale of the Impossible Girl's crimes.

John Smith sat at his desk, flicking through the file in front of him with a sense of spirited disinterest. It wasn’t anything to do with the case of the Impossible Girl, which might be why he found himself less than enthralled, but frankly the entire atmosphere of this new station was far from conducive to him being able to concentrate on anything. While the building might have seemed lofty and impressive from outside, once inside, the labyrinthine corridors and stuffy, oppressive rooms without windows made the air hot and thick, which, in turn, made officers and detectives alike sluggish and lazy — something he was blaming for his current sense of total apathy. He’d had the glamorous, but foolish notion, when he accepted this job, that he’d find himself with a grand corner office in a steel-and-glass construction of the kind that dotted the London skyline, and that he’d be able to look out over his turf and appraise it silently from above, like a Glaswegian overlord contemplating his people and getting the lie of the land.

Instead, he’d found himself boxed in by plasterboard walls and stucco paintwork in fifty shades of beige, offset by muddy-coloured carpets and ancient, flickering fluorescent lights. The exterior of the building had not served enough of a prohibitive warning and stylistic signpost to future architects, who had disregarded history and human decency in favour of what had once been a popular design trend that John recalled vividly the first time around. He groaned in frustration, leaning back in his chair and wishing — not for the first time — that he had never left Glasgow behind in favour of heading back to the sprawling metropolis that was London. He’d had a life back in Scotland. He’d had… if not friends, then a support network, at the very least, of colleagues who didn’t despise him.

That was the unadulterated truth of the matter. No matter what he did or said here, he would always be the second-best option; the bargain-bucket, brushing-retirement replacement for Detective Inspector Danny Pink. He was sure that the same officers who shot him filthy looks over the kettle in the communal kitchen would be the same officers to complain about staffing levels if they found themselves short a member of CID, and he was sure that they would detest anyone who had filled DI Pink’s role, and yet still their hostility stung. He was old enough and wise enough to consider himself above their childish, playground-level politics, but he wished that one or two of them might break rank and attempt to have a conversation with him about… anything, even the weather. The anxiety of filling the gap left behind by Pink’s death was crushing enough without navigating a new station and a new area alone.

Well. As alone as it was possible to be when Kate Stewart, his superior officer, insisted on over-compensating for his isolation by spending large chunks of time in his office, jabbering away about Hendon and their days policing the streets of the capital, as well as the escapades she had got up to in the interim three decades. They’d kept in sporadic contact over the years, both of them caught up in their jobs and their marriages, but not enough contact for him to have heard many of her anecdotes, and so he was often content just to let her talk at him for what felt like hours on end. It did little to win him any favour among his colleagues, he was sure, but it made him feel better to have someone familiar with him, and so he did his best to listen to Kate’s tall tales and laugh or gasp in the right places.

Truthfully, being back in London made him uncomfortable. He had fled the capital many years before in a bid to escape his past, and there was something about being here again that made him uneasy. Streets he had once known like the back of his hand were now reduced to rubble or built up with mega-mansions for the super-rich in a concerted project of gentrification that he, with his profoundly working-class background, found abhorrent. Parts of the city he had once known to avoid were now considered popular destinations for tourists and locals alike, and pubs he had once found affordable now made his eyes water even to think of the cost of a drink, or a meal, or any such simple pleasures. He had left this city behind him, and now it had left him behind. His punishment for fleeing, he supposed, but a small price to pay for the avoidance of… well, everything he had tried to leave behind. His eyes flicked, as they habitually did when he thought of the past, to the photograph that sat on his desk of a woman with a mass of curly blonde hair and a knowing smile.

“Shut up,” he told it, half-sensing and half-imagining her reaction from years of familiarity. “I know I’m just feeling sorry for myself.”

He still recalled Kate’s desperate phone call to him ten days previously. She’d begged and she’d pleaded and she’d wheedled with him to come back to London, citing a car accident and a dead detective inspector, and promising him a pay rise and something about his own office. When that hadn’t worked, there had been a short pause, and then:

“What if I told you about the case DI Pink was working on?” she’d asked, her tone caught somewhere between breathlessly mischievous and irate. She’d been nagging him for what felt like hours, and he was sure that his constant refusals had been starting to grate on her nerves.

“Isn’t that a breach of-”

“Danny was looking into the Impossible Girl. Maybe you’ve heard of her.”

“Not so much. Us Scots don’t have a great deal of interest in what you wee English nancies struggle to deal with down there.”

“I’m going to magnanimously ignore that comment and fire back to you with: she’s the woman who robbed Henry Van Statten five days ago.”

“The…” he’d swallowed then, recalling the case. He’d read about it on the way to work, feeling a curious sense of satisfaction that such an odious man had finally got his comeuppance. Not that he would tell Kate that; she’d only accuse him of being classist, or similar. “That was one of DI Pink’s cases?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well… how many others has she robbed? What kind of scale are we looking at?”

“We can’t put a number on it. We think there are several victims who are too embarrassed to come forward — robbed by a _girl_ and all that — and there’s others who have just got generally idiotic ex-girlfriends, but want to make themselves look more interesting by tying themselves to the case.”

“What’s the ballpark figure?”

“About thirty, that we know of.”

He’d let out a long, impressed whistle, unable to keep himself from chuckling. “She’s really got you all tied up in knots, eh?”

“Yes,” Kate had said with amusement, then added: “Yes, she has. And I know you, John Smith.”

“Meaning?”

“I know about your interest in dangerous women.”

“That makes it sound like I’ve been bedding them. Steady on.”

“I mean…” he had heard the smirk in Kate’s voice, and rolled his eyes. “No one would blame you.”

“Kate, I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Don’t you want the chance to put this woman away?” she’d asked, her tone soft and pleading. “She’s obviously a risk. What if she ends up killing one of these men?”

“I mean…”

“Don’t answer that. Come on, John. It doesn’t even have to be forever. A short secondment and we’ll see how it goes.”

“Fine,” he’d muttered, acquiescing to her iron will to save himself from the otherwise-inevitable days of nagging. “But there’s a condition.”

“Name it.”

“I’m keeping my rank. You’re not demoting me.”

There had been a bubble of laughter from the other end of the line. “Deal. But I’ll still be your superior, so don’t even think about getting too big for your boots.”

He’d hung up after they’d thrashed out the logistics, feeling cautiously optimistic about the whole affair. But now?

Now he’d met the Impossible Girl. Now he knew what he was facing, and his positivity had blown away like smoke. She wasn’t like other criminals he’d investigated. There wasn’t a concrete trail of evidence, beyond the missing money and valuables and the garbled, half-incoherent statements of the men she left behind. She was clever, and she was starting to show off, and that was a dangerous combination. He had met women who loved to show off before, and he had seen how that ended.

He tried to shake the sudden, crushing memory of a prison corridor from his mind, and a woman with dark hair being led away from him with a confused expression that he knew was entirely false. That was another life. That was another woman, and another single crime committed out of desperate passion.

This? This was something new. This was crime for the sake of crime; crime for the sake of being clever. He had met the perpetrator face-to-face, and he’d been unable to read her. She had been entirely mercurial — one minute weeping, the next exchanging barbs with him as though entirely unaffected — and that had rendered her a mystery to him; something to be solved and someone to be brought in. She was emotional, that much he knew, so could that be played to? If he put pressure on the issue of DI Pink, could she be persuaded to break cover in a bid to defend his image?

The question that nagged at him was why she cared so much. She could deny it all she wanted; she could claim herself to be heartless and cold; and yet he had seen her at the funeral and that level of remorse and grief was entirely genuine. It wasn’t uncommon for women like her to forge an attachment to someone — his mind flicked back to the prison corridor — and for that to inspire crimes of great magnitude and horror, but this was… something else. DI Pink wasn’t the reason the Impossible Girl committed her crimes. He wasn’t a motivating factor beyond the superficial desire to show off. Her crimes had brought him to her, and now she was captured in a state of self-loathing, suspended somewhere between the moral and the immoral as she undoubtedly battled with herself about what to do next. There had been a singular lack of robberies in the week since DI Pink’s death, but he had no doubt that they would soon restart — perhaps with more aplomb and daring than before.

He would need an action plan, and more understanding of the case, and… he recalled the lack of details, and what DI Pink had done, and cursed the man’s weak nature for giving in to the Impossible Girl’s allure. She was pretty, he couldn’t deny that, but worth throwing away a case for? Worth potentially losing his job for? Never. No woman was worth that — although it had almost been a different story entirely. He still recalled how much he had screamed when they’d told him the news of another death, long ago, and how he’d physically had to fight with himself to prevent himself from heading into the station and exacting his revenge, lest he end up in the dock instead of the accused.

Putting his head in his hands and letting out a groan of frustration, John woke up his computer screen with his mouse and navigated through several systems until he found what he wanted. With reticent hands, he typed in the name he wanted and pulled up the appropriate record.

_Melissa Antoine Saxon._

_DOB 23/11/66_

_Charges: kidnapping, murder, perverting the course of justice_

_Sentence: life imprisonment with a minimum sentence of fifteen years, Restricted Status. Highly dangerous, see attached Prisoner Liaison File._

_Current location: HM Prison Bronzefield, Middlesex_

He scrolled down the page until he found the attached photograph they had taken after they caught her, her eyes wild with barely suppressed fury and her hair tangled and matted against her scalp.

“Oh, Missy,” he said sadly. “This is all your fault.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara comes up with a truly mad plan.

“You know,” Clara rolled over in bed, holding her phone above her face and continuing to scroll through BBC News with spirited disinterest. “I think the news was more fun when I was waiting to see if I’d made the cut. Really missing that suspense every time I open the app.”

“You’re incorrigible,” from her position at Clara’s desk, Bonnie threw a pillow in her sister’s general direction, missing by several feet and receiving a glare by way of response. “I thought you were supposed to be… I don’t know, rehabilitated or reformed or whatever it’s called when criminality packs its bags, heads off, and dies.”

“You’re mistaking my criminality with Danny, Bon. He’s the only dead thing involved.”

“Should you be making jokes like that?”

“It’s a coping strategy,” Clara shot back, knowing the veracity of her words and finding herself irked by Bonnie’s chiding. As long as she was making jokes about it and trading barbs with her sister, she wasn’t thinking about the fact he really wasn’t coming back. Really wasn’t about to ring her, or send her a flirty text message. Really wasn’t just… there, like an omnipresent voice of doom seeking to counter her illicit activities. “Leave me alone.”

“Well, it’s a better coping strategy than robbing people.”

“That one was more fun. Hell, _is_ more fun.”

“Why is that present-tense? I’m finding your use of the present tense exceptionally concerning here,” Bonnie narrowed her eyes at her twin, arching an eyebrow warningly. “Why are you using the present tense?”

“Because it’s a present-tense pastime that I am continuing to enjoy.”

“Crime. It’s a crime, and it’s not present-tense, you haven’t done anything illegal in days. I’m proud of you for that, honestly. I think this might be your longest ever streak of abiding by the law. I should do like AA and give you a chip. Or a certificate.”

“When you’ve finished being patronising, can I remind you that I’ve been busy?”

“Doing what?!”

“Moping,” Clara said, in the kind of tone that stressed to her sister that it should’ve been obvious. “Grieving. Crying. Upholding Danny’s memory. Going to the funeral. That sort of thing. You know, all the things we did after Mum.”

“This is supposed to be a permanent state of being now, you know that, right?”

“What, moping and going to funerals? Bon, I know life is short and all that, but it’s not good to dwell on mortality and get preoccupied with death. Plus we aren’t that ol-”

“I mean the lack of crime. Your lack of crime should be a permanent fixture in your life. You should really stick to obeying the law. Ideally.”

“Why?” Clara frowned. “It’s boring, and rules are made to be broken.”

“God, if only you-at-school could hear yourself now. Can I remind you that breaking the law is bad and you’ll end up in prison?” Bonnie rolled her eyes. “How’s that for the first item on a very, very long list of reasons why you should possibly stop robbing people?”

“I’ll only go to prison if I get caught. Which I won’t, because the Met are idiots who are clinically incapable of actually catching me, remember?”

“You weren’t getting caught because you were sleeping with Danny. The Met are _not_ idiots, so don’t treat them as such. You’ll get complacent, and then you’ll get caught. And no, I’m not doing a Barty Crouch and swapping places with you in prison. It’s not _Orange is the New Black_ in there. There is no Alex Vause waiting for you. Just lots of scary butch women who will want to make you their bitch, and, frankly, I don’t think you’re going to handle that well. Don’t come crying to me when you get shivved.”

“Think how much reading I could do, though.”

“Think how dead you would end up.”

“But _books_. And routine. And order. Honestly, for a control freak-”

“Clara, for two seconds, do you think you could manage to be serious?”

“No, not really.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I’m serious about anything, I’ll probably cry,” Clara attempted a dismissive shrug, falling only somewhat short and dropping her gaze to her lap in a bid to hide the tears welling in her eyes from Bonnie. “And I’d rather not do that, thanks.”

“Crying isn’t always a bad thing,” Bonnie said softly, vacating her seat at Clara’s desk and plonking down beside her sister on the bed. Reaching over, she took her sister’s hand and gave it a reassuring little squeeze. “Especially not after everything you’ve been through.”

“I did enough crying after Mum,” Clara reminded her. “And I think I cried enough then to fill the Atlantic twice over. Minimum. Plus you helped.”

“Well, conversely, I don’t think you’ve cried enough over Danny.”

“What are you, the Bereavement Police? I wasn’t aware there was a minimum requirement.”

“Please, at the very least, tell me you’re not seriously going to consider going back out there and carrying on with your idiotic little scheme? I mean, do you even have a scheme? Or is it just-”

“Do you want me to be honest or do you want me to lie? Because lying is morally reprehensible.”

“So is tying up rich blokes and robbing them.”

“No, that’s karmic intervention. Whole different kettle of fish to moral reprehensibility.”

“That is not a word,” Bonnie folded her arms and affixed her sister with a bemused expression, but a smile was playing across her features. “I’m calling bullshit on that being a word.”

“I’m an English teacher, so like… it’s basically in my remit to make up words. Ask the _Oxford English Dictionary_ ,” Clara informed her solemnly. “Or you can look in my contract, it definitely says that in there.”

“Stop changing the subject. You’re not going back out there as your scary alter ego.”

“No, I’m not,” Clara said with great magnanimity. “I’m becoming an upstanding and moral citizen.”

“That’s a lie, isn’t it?”

“Obviously.”

“Clara!”

“What?!”

“You can’t go back to what you were doing before! You don’t have Danny anymore, you don’t have anyone to look out for you or help you out, how the hell are you meant to stay safe? How the hell are you going to uphold every promise you made to me about coming home safe?”

“I don’t know,” Clara confessed, her voice trembling with uncertainty as she was forced to confront all the fears that had been playing on her mind over the previous few days. “OK? Honestly I don’t know, but I know I can’t just… stop.”

“This is just…” Bonnie sighed. “This is becoming a problem, Clara.”

“No, it’s already _become_ a problem. I’m fully aware of that, honestly.”

“So why not stop?”

“Because I don’t think I can,” the admission took them both by surprise, their eyes locking as Clara whispered. “I don’t know how.”

“It’s like…”

“An addiction.”

“Clara, you can't really tell if something's an addiction till you try and give it up. And you never have.”

“No,” Clara swallowed, clenching her free hand into a fist and looking down at her chipped, bitten nails. “And I don’t think I can.”

“You’re at risk,” Bonnie reminded her, her tone pleading and desperate. “You don’t have Danny as your safety net and people are getting more switched on to what you’re doing. How long is it going to be before you have a repeat of… you know?”

A look passed between them, and Clara was reminded of strong hands closing around her wrists; a lamp being swung towards her; and a furious mouth twisted into a leer of loathing. She shook her head to clear the image, shuddering at the recollection.

“I’ll work something out. I’ll keep myself safe, Bon. I promise.”

“OK, so what’s your current plan of action?”

“Seducing the new officer on the case.”

“We both know that’s a terrible idea.”

“I _know_ it’s a terrible idea. He’s nowhere near as nice looking as Danny, plus he’s old. Majorly not on.”

“You like older men, so stop pretending that’s a hardship.”

“Older men, yeah, but not _fossilised_ men. And certainly not abrasive Scottish men.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“Excuse me, you _just_ told me not to shag him.”

“No,” Bonnie held up a hand and raised her eyebrows. “I told you it was a bad idea. Big difference.”

“Right,” Clara snorted, baffled by her sister’s constantly changing mood. “I’m thinking about it anyway. Not sure it’ll work, but it has to be worth a shot, right?”

“I suppose?” Bonnie cocked her head to the side. “I mean, we both know you’re gorgeous.”

“Says my identical tw-” she fell silent as an idea springing, fully formed, into her head. It was mad, and it was dangerous, but it just might help to take some of the heat off her on her next job.

“What?”

“You’re my identical twin.”

“Yes,” Bonnie said patiently. “Well done on noticing that. We’ve spent nearly three decades being mistaken for each other. We shared a uterus together. This is not news.”

“No… you’re my _identical_ twin.”

“Yes, I get it. I’m just as hot as you are. Honestly, it’s a burden.”

“No!” Clara sighed, frustrated by her sister’s failure to grasp what she was implying. “You’re _identical to me_. People can’t tell us apart.”

“Clara, can you please just get to the point before I shop you to the police out of sheer frustration?”

“If we _both_ go out on the same night and target two different men at the same time, the Met are going to shit themselves. They won’t know what’s hit them.”

“Clara…”

“Think about it. Any accusations by marks will be totally discredited, because how could I possibly be in two places at once? That’s impossible. I’m not superhuman. No one will be believed.”

“Clara-”

“It’s the perfect plan!”

“Clara, I’m not doing it.”

“Why? It would keep me safe.”

“It. Is. Not. Happening.”

 

* * *

 

Two days later, Clara was sat in the back of an executive-class Uber, speeding towards an upscale bar in Kensington, when her phone vibrated. Pulling it out of her bag, she looked down to discover a text message from her sister.

_I fucking hate you, I have mentioned that, right? Absolutely bricking it. How do you keep doing this? It’s terrifying._

Smiling to herself, she shot back:

_You’ve mentioned it several times. I owe you big time for this. Love you x_

**Bonnie:** _Can I keep the dress at least?_

 **Clara:** _The new season Emilia Wickstead? Absolutely not, bitch._

 **Bonnie:** _Brb off home then xxx_

 **Clara:** _Fine. You can keep the dress but know I’m borrowing it back whenever I need it OK? Love you xxx_

 **Bonnie:** _Why did I agree to this? Have I taken leave of what was left of my sanity? (not a lot tbh)_

 **Clara:** _Because you love me? Very much?_

 **Bonnie:** _Debatable._

 **Clara:** _Very funny. Love you. Be safe. xx_

Putting her phone away, she took a steadying breath and offered a silent prayer of gratitude to a god she didn’t quite believe in as thanks for changing Bonnie’s mind. Two days of constant nagging on her part may have had something to do with it, but there was still an element of the divine intervention about the entire affair — in her mind, anyway. She’d hugged her sister tightly before they’d both set off, each sporting a dress that would’ve cost them half a year’s salary under normal circumstances.

The idea had seemed so pragmatic when she’d first thought of it, days earlier. Now… now she had to admit she was worried. Bonnie didn’t have the experience she did, and she didn’t have the same resilience. There was no knowing how she’d react to curveballs being tossed into the plan, and Clara wished, suddenly, that she had never suggested the idea or swayed Bonnie to see it from her point of view. Seducing the new officer on her case was seeming like an increasingly appealing prospect, especially if it meant keeping her sister safe from harm. Chewing at the cuticle beside a now-immaculately manicured nail, she tried to quell her feelings of panic and attempted to tell herself that Bonnie would be fine, even as she felt fear rising in her chest.

Taking out her phone again, she fired off a final text to her twin as her Uber drew to a halt outside her destination.

_I’m sorry. This seemed like such a good idea at the time. Stay safe, be smart, and I will never ask you to do this again. I swear. I love you. xxxx_


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara encounters DCI Smith for the third time - while marginally less clothed than before.

Clara wasn’t sure what she had been expecting when Bonnie returned home that evening, but it had not been her twin, breathless and triumphant and clutching a wad of cash and ostentatious gold jewellery. She was trembling with euphoria and adrenaline, and it was only by some miracle that Clara had managed to keep her from crowing about her success at maximum volume, instead steering her upstairs and diverting her attention with a cup of hot chocolate. She had anticipated her sister being in shock. She had anticipated a low level of trauma, even. She had not anticipated the smirking woman sat beside her, and somehow that was worse than what she had steeled herself for. She could not and would not allow her sister to fall in love with criminality the way she had. She wouldn’t allow Bonnie to become as reckless and wild as she had. She had made her twin a promise, and that promise extended to keeping both herself and Bonnie safe — something she couldn’t do if this criminal enterprise between the two of them were allowed to continue.

So, over the following days, as she dipped in and out of what was increasingly becoming her “other life,” trying to muster some enthusiasm to teach apathetic teenagers English, she began to get a plan of action together. She kept a list of ideas on her phone, held securely behind two passcodes, and she did covert research every evening — or attempted to, at least, because “John Smith” was not the sort of name that yielded large amounts of useful information online.

It wasn’t until she had an itemised agenda, a map of her destination, and a plan of attack that she set the wheels into motion. Operation “Keeping the Oswalds Safe” was underway.

 

* * *

 

John wiggled his computer’s mouse, then groaned in frustration. He wasn’t sure what he’d managed to click on, but the entire screen had frozen and was now flashing a large irate red warning at him, and he didn’t have the energy to phone IT to seek help with the problem. The last time he had done that, their helpful advice had been to switch it off and on again, and, while he considered himself something of a self-confessed technological dinosaur, even he could have worked that one out. He squinted at the screen, considering just following the age-old process, but then realising he would lose the report he’d spent the last hour typing up.

“Bollocks,” he muttered under his breath, cursing modern technology and cursing this stinking city and cursing… well, he wasn’t sure, but if it could be cursed, he would curse it. “Bloody computers… supposed to be making my life easier…”

There was an ill-timed knock at the door of his office, and he swore again. “What?!” he roared, his temper fraying. “Not a bloody good t-”

He looked up as the door opened and a dark-haired woman stepped inside, the words dying on his lips as he looked her over, from her high-heeled feet to her long, dark coat to her scarlet lipstick, and fought the urge to laugh. He recognised her and her intentions at once, and they were laughably obvious, but he supposed it couldn’t hurt to play along, could it?

“Hello,” she said, in the breathy sort of voice that he suspected lesser men — and, he realised with a shudder, properly DI Pink — would find sexy. “I’ve been looking for you, Detective Chief Inspector Smith.”

He had to admit, there was something about the way that she said his name that was distinctly… well, he didn’t want to follow that train of thought, so he settled for “nice” in lieu of any more provocative adjectives.

“Oh?” he asked, thinking _fuck_ _it_ to himself and finally switching his computer off before leaning back in his chair and raising his eyebrows in a silent challenge. “And why would that be?”

“I’ve been lonely lately,” she pouted, emphasising the soft swell of her lips, and then took a step forwards. “And in need of companionship. I’ve been craving physical contact, DCI Smith.”

“Right,” his eyebrows, if anything, raised even higher. Did she seriously think this silly flirtatiousness was going to work on him? He was above this kind of silliness. He’d been there, done that, and it was boring. “And you thought of me because…”

“You’re a police officer,” her hands went to the belt of her coat, and as she undid it he realised her hands were shaking. “Strong… powerful…” with one fluid movement, she shrugged it off, revealing… well, not quite as much of her as he’d seen in their first encounter, but still a sizeable amount of skin, clad as she was in a red satin lingerie set that he immediately decided should be outlawed on grounds of causing a hazard to public health.

“You know,” he said with tremendous magnanimity, as she crossed the room with three confident strides and perched on the edge of his desk, her tits at his eye-level. Not that he was looking, of course, but if he were. “That lines like that…”

“Mm?”

“Are really not going to work on me.”

Her entire expression changed in an instant. The smouldering, seductive look in her eyes vanished and her mouth twisted into an angry scowl as she glared down at him, folding her arms and looking — despite her small stature — wholly terrifying. “So what will? How can I stroke your ego, DCI Smith? Or would you prefer I stroke other parts of you?”

“I’d really rather you did neither.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t say no to this,” she gestured to herself with a theatrical flourish. “There’s no way this is doing nothing for you.”

“Seems a touch narcissistic. Precisely how in love with yourself are you?”

“What, do you bat for the other team?” she tossed her hair imperiously, ignoring the cattiness of his comment. “Because, if so, I’m sure I could set you up with one of my friends.”

“Are they criminals too? Because, if so, I’d rather not. And not that it’s any of your business, but men do nothing for me.”

“God, you’re so sanctimonious. Are you really telling me that this look doesn’t turn you on just a _little_ bit?”

He considered, for one fleeting second, telling her that it _did_ do something for him — something he was trying very, very hard to ignore. Instead, he opted for the carefully constructed lie of: “Nothing at all. You’re young enough to be my daughter, so maybe put all this…” he gestured to her body. “Away.”

“Rude.”

“No, I just don’t want it shoved in my face. Besides, it’s not exactly warm in here, I don’t want you collapsing with hypothermia.”

“So, warm me up,” her smirk returned, and she leaned down towards him, placing her hands on his cheeks and biting her lip. Was it getting hotter in here? Was that a thing that was happening, or was he simply- “Come on, DCI Smith. Can’t let me freeze to death, can you? I’m your number one suspect. You need to get me in handcuffs, remember? If you ask nicely, I might even let you do that now. Handcuffs, and maybe something to stop me from screaming too loudly…”

Oh, Jesus. This was unfair. This was wholly unfair, and he knew it, and, worse still, _she_ knew it. She brushed her lips against his neck as she leant down, and, dear god, that bra did not provide a lot of coverage, and would it really be so bad to just… give in? Would it really be so terrible to allow himself to be human and take this beautiful woman to bed? Not that they’d make it that far, but he supposed that his desk would make a more than worthy substitute.

Her eyes flicked down to his lap, and, if anything, her smirk intensified. There was something about it that he couldn’t quite place — something condescending or belittling — and that was enough for his sense of reason to return.

“Did you let Danny put you in handcuffs?” he asked, and she pulled away from him as though she’d been burned, her face contorting into a mask of rage. “Did you do this for him, too?”

“How…” she blinked hard. “How dare you? How dare you bring that up?”

“How dare you turn up here and try to fuck me on my desk?” John shrugged. “There, now we’re both incredulous and even.”

“Please. Like you don’t want me. I can see the tent in your trousers from here. Nice ironing job, by the way. It helps if you switch it on.”

“Fuck off,” he shot back, and her eyebrows shot up at the casual profanity. “Alright? Just fuck off. I’m not Danny, I’m not sympathetic to your cause, and I’m not going to shag you.”

She turned her face away, clenching her fists at her sides, and for a second she looked… well, if he didn’t know better, he might have said vulnerable. Sighing, he snagged her coat from its position on the floor, holding it out to her like a peace offering. She looked at him with confusion, her eyebrows knitting together in consternation as she considered the discarded item of clothing, and he gave it an encouraging little shake.

“Come on,” he said gently, sensing she needed him to be kind, at least temporarily. “It’s cold in here. You’ll need this.”

“What makes you think I’m planning on staying?”

“That’s up to you, but I’d rather you didn’t freeze to death on my watch.”

“Might be hard to explain to your boss.”

“Something like that, yeah,” he smiled as she took the coat and slipped it on, crossing her arms in front of her chest and raising her chin defiantly. “Better?”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“I’m really not going to shag you. Just so we’re clear.”

“I know.”

“Can you honestly say that you _wanted_ to shag me?” he asked. “Or was it…”

She shook her head miserably, although he was unsure which part of his question she was responding to. A visceral part of him felt a stab of rejection nonetheless, but he brushed the sentiment aside and tried to rise above the pangs of bitterness.

“No to which part?” he pressed. “I need-”

“No, I didn’t want to. I just felt like I should.”

“There we go,” he gave her a shy little grin. “Not your type, I’m guessing?”

“Something like that,” she chewed on her lip, and some of her dark lipstick was misplaced by her teeth, leaving an exposed patch of pink that seemed frighteningly lost in the slew of crimson she had used to make herself seem more appealing. It didn’t – a small part of him acknowledged that she had seemed prettier at the funeral, when she wasn’t caked in the layers of makeup that most men seemed to require of women today. Not that he would be telling her that, of course, but still. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Making a fool of myself. I guess you’re going to have to arrest me now, aren’t you?” she held her wrists out to him, pale and vulnerable beneath shaking hands. “Get it over with.”

“I’m not going to arrest you,” he said, the words taking him by surprise. “You’re struggling, that much is obvious. It wouldn’t be…”

“Wouldn’t be what?”

“Kind.”

She let out a bitter yelp of bemusement. “Since when were police officers concerned with being kind?”

“Since you just lost Danny, and I think you still need time to put yourself back together.”

“I _am_ back together.”

“No, you’re not. Don’t try to lie to me.”

“I _am_.”

“You just tried to seduce a police officer who was sat at his desk minding his own business.”

“Yeah, alright,” she sniffed, giving him a quick, nervous smile. “Point taken.”

“If your aim was to secure your own safety…” he dithered for a moment, unsure how she would take his words. “Why not try just going straight? Giving it all up? That would do it.”

“That’s a nice suggestion,” she gave him a sad smile. “But an impractical one. I’m sorry.”

“Is someone making you do this?!” he asked with incredulity, feeling suddenly and inexplicably defensive of the scared-looking woman in front of him. “Are they forcing you to rob people?”

“You could say that,” she shrugged. “That someone is me.”

“I don’t…”

“I should go,” she swallowed. “Thanks for uh… thanks for not arresting me.”

“You’re… welcome.”

Some of her previous bravado returned, and she tipped him a wink. “I’ll leave you to deal with your uh… situation.”

John looked down at his lap, formulating a caustic response, but when he looked back up she was gone, the door slamming shut behind her.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara had not planned for this.

It didn’t matter how many times Clara carried out a job, or how professional she thought she was, sometimes things would go wrong. She’d misjudge how much alcohol to ply a mark with. She’d not tie her knots tightly enough. She wouldn’t factor in things like children or nannies or staff to deal with. Simple problems. Ones that were easy enough to overcome with hip flasks or closed fists or soft, murmured lies.

This? This was not a simple problem. This was a six-foot-high, spike-topped security gate, and she wasn’t about to head back into the house to try and find the remote to unlock it. Especially not since the homeowner in question was undoubtedly already on the phone to police, and Clara could feel her adrenaline spiking at the mere thought of sirens and officers heading her way. She’d messed up; she knew that much. Somewhere between her confusion and her sadness and her lack of concentration, she’d made mistake after mistake, and now there was a small wad of cash in her bag, but nothing more. A pitiful fee for a pitiful attempt at a job.

The front door opened behind her, and she braced herself for a round of verbal abuse, or bragging, or the promise that she would shortly be incarcerated. Instead, what came was much worse.

An Alsatian, large and furious, shot out of the house, barking at maximum volume. Swearing loudly, Clara reached for the ornate metalwork of the gate and hauled herself up, mentally cringing at the vicious-looking spikes the blocked her path but cringing more at the aggressive dog that would no doubt take extreme pleasure in ripping into her flesh with sharp teeth. There had been no sign of a dog — no telltale collars or leads or toys anywhere; not even the merest hint of wet-dog smell, or she’d have got the hell out of there somewhat earlier than she had, with some made-up excuse about a prior commitment or a headache. No, she’d let herself become complacent. She’d let herself get lax. And now? Now there was a furious German shepherd snapping at her heels… literally.

As she grabbed hold of the top of the gate and hauled herself up to the highest point, she sensed the canine lunging up at her and twisted her body clear of its jaws. Its teeth closed around the loose skirt of her dress instead, and there was a soft ripping noise as it yanked, displacing her enough that she almost lost her grip. Adjusting her body weight to compensate, she hauled herself upwards and got her feet on the top of the gate, pulling herself up and swinging forwards to use her own momentum to carry herself over the top and to safety.

It wasn’t an easy manoeuvre by any means. She was trained in taekwondo, not in gymnastics, and this was entirely out of her comfort zone. She could run, she could hit, and she could kick, but this? This was something new; something she had no experience of; and as she saw the relative safety of the pavement rushing up to meet her she could feel that something, somehow, was wrong. Her feet hit the ground and as they did she became aware of a burning pain in the back of her leg, but there was no time to dwell on it as neighbouring properties’ lights began to flicker on and the street started to descend into a state of chaos spurred by the angry parking of the Alsatian behind her.

Taking a step forwards, she tried to ignore the pain spreading down her thigh, and instead began to run.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until she reached the relative safety of a nearby Underground station that she looked down at her leg. She’d expected a muscle injury or a sprain, but what she was confronted with was far worse. There was a long, deep gash down the back of her thigh, and blood was trickling sluggishly past her knee and painting her calf in long, lurid streams of crimson. Taking a deep breath, Clara tried to recall some of her first aid training from what felt like lifetimes ago, mentally flicking through the pages of notes she had made that day. The cut wasn’t pulsing, so it wasn’t arterial. It wasn’t hot, so it wasn’t infected. It needed pressure and to be above her heart, the latter of which couldn’t be fulfilled easily in public, so she tore a strip off the hem of her dress and bound herself up as well as she could before limping down the escalator and finding a spot on the platform where she could lean against the wall as she waited for the Tube.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” an elderly gentleman stood nearby asked her with concern, his eyes widening in horror as he took in her gore-splattered leg. “That looks nasty, you should get it looked at.”

“My housemate is a doctor,” Clara explained with an easy smile, forcing herself to look and sound as gracious as possible. “Saves on the A&E waiting times.”

“Still, here…” he reached into his pocket and fished out a handkerchief, handing it to her with a flourish. “At least mop yourself up a little bit, you don’t want to be scaring any kiddies.”

“Thanks,” Clara said with gratitude, beginning to daub at her shin and calf with care, wincing as she inched higher towards the wound. “That’s really kind of you.”

“Don’t mention it. My granddaughter is about the same age as you, and she’d never forgive me if I let her limp home like that. She’d bend my ear for weeks.”

Clara laughed, although she felt like crying. The adrenaline that had been flooding her system was beginning to wane, and the pain in her leg was intensifying. She knew what would happen next, and she needed to avoid it — she would start to go into shock, and she couldn’t risk that.

“Are you alright?” the gentleman asked, his brow furrowing, and she realised she must have already started to lose colour. “You look a bit peaky.”

“Just…” Clara swallowed. “Not feeling so good.”

“I’m not surprised, big gash like that! What did you even do? That’s not your run-of-the-mill injury, that’s a proper war wound.”

“Just fell over on the way home… there was glass…”

“Here, hang about,” he steered her towards a bench on the platform and then patted down his pockets, eventually producing a half-melted boiled sweet. “Supposed to be good for shock, isn’t it? Sugar? Hot sweet tea’s meant to be the ticket, but I don’t have my Thermos on me this evening.”

“This is…” Clara took the sweet with shaking hands, touched by the gesture. “This is really nice of you. Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he said, as with a rush of hot air and noise, the train rushed into the station, and the stranger got to his feet. “Here, let me give you a hand on, yeah?”

“Thanks,” Clara said again, accepting his proffered arm and allowing him to lead her into the carriage. “Really. Thank you, this means a lot.”

 

* * *

 

The rest of the journey was a blur, and by the time Clara got home, her leg was screaming in agony, blood seeping through her makeshift bandage and trickling down her leg. Closing the front door behind her, she leant back against it, taking shallow breaths and trying not to scream in agony at the mere thought of ascending the stairs.

“Clara?” a voice asked, from what felt like a very long way away, and she was just about able to discern that it was her sister through the fugue of agony she felt increasingly lost in. “Clara, what-” the light was flicked on, and there was a long spate of muted swearing. “Jesus, what happened?”

“There was…” she let out a shuddering breath. “A dog…”

“And it bit you?”

“No, there was also… also a gate. A pointy gate,” she closed her eyes, sensing Bonnie kneeling in front of her. “Please… please don’t-”

Bonnie’s fingers made contact with the agonised skin of her thigh, and she let out a yelp of agony.

“Shit,” her twin breathed. “Shit, sorry. Clara, this is bad. You need to go to hospital.”

“No,” Clara swallowed thickly, gritting her teeth as Bonnie continued to probe the injury with her fingertips. “No, I need Martha. She can help. She’s a doctor.”

“She’s going to ask questions, Clara…”

“At this point, I don’t fucking care. Please. I need… I need to lie down, and I need something sugary.”

“How did you even get here?”

“Tube. And walked.”

“I’d have come and got you, you know?”

“Too much blood to get in a cab,” Clara felt her eyes fill with tears. “Bon, please. Help me upstairs and get Martha.”

Her sister nodded reticently, straightening up and slipping an arm around her shoulders. “Are you going to be able to not-scream?”

“I’ll bloody well try, at least,” Clara promised, taking a deep breath, and Bonnie half-supported, half-lifted her onto the first step, eliciting an agonised shriek by way of response. “No. No, I’m not.”

“Here,” Bonnie handed her a balled-up tissue. “Bite on that.”

“It’ll go all mushy.”

“If you’re going to be a princess about this…”

“Just keep talking to me. OK? I can’t scream _and_ talk at the same time.”

“OK,” Bonnie shrugged, steeling them both to ascend another step. “What lie are we going to tell Martha?”

“Urm,” Clara swallowed. “That I fell on some glass. That’s what I told the guy on the Tube.”

“What guy on the Tube?” Bonnie heaved them up another step and Clara bit back a shriek as her leg protested.

“Some old bloke. He was really kind. Chatted to me. Stopped me going into shock.”

“Wow. Some people in London don’t suck, who knew?”

“Indeed,” Clara groaned as Bonnie hauled them up another stair. “Jesus. This hurts, a lot.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

The ascent continued in agonised near-silence save for the occasional involuntary yelp, and, upon reaching the top, Bonnie steered them into Clara’s room, depositing her on the bed before heading along the landing and knocking on Martha’s door.

Clara didn’t hear the muted conversation between the two women, but seconds later they both appeared in her bedroom, Martha’s face contorting a mask of horror for a second before taking on a look of professional detachment.

“Right,” Martha said in a pragmatic tone, her training kicking in. “That looks nasty. Bonnie said you fell on some glass?”

“Yeah,” Clara mumbled, as Martha took a seat on the edge of the bed with her medical bag. “That’s right.”

“Is there any still left in the wound?”

“Don’t think so.”

“How did you manage to make it back?!” Martha looked amazed and horrified in equal measure as she pulled on a pair of latex gloves and began to gently examine the injury. “This looks nasty, I wouldn’t have been able to walk on it. Absolute trooper, you are.”

“Mm,” Clara closed her eyes, biting back a warm scream. “Hurts.”

“Clara, this is beyond anything I can do here. You need stitches.”

“Can’t you do them?”

“Not here, no. Besides, I’m going to be honest with you… I wasn’t expecting to be needed in a medical capacity, so I’m a couple of glasses of wine down. You don’t want a slightly pissed junior doctor doing embroidery in your leg.”

“But…”

“Hospital. OK? I’m sorry, babe. Say you know me and they might give you preferential treatment. Hopefully of the good kind.”

“Fingers crossed,” Clara mumbled, resigning herself to the inevitable. “Thank you, Martha.”

 

* * *

 

Despite Clara’s protestations, Bonnie had booked them a cab to take them across the city. She’d helped Clara out of her stained, torn dress and into a loose skirt and top, wiped off the remains of her makeup, and then bandaged up the injury as best as she could with dressings Martha had given them. The journey had seemed interminably long, but, with the imminent possibility of detection becoming increasingly likely as they approached the hospital, Clara found her adrenaline peaking and mercifully ridding her of any pain.

As they entered A&E, Clara felt a brief flash of regret that they had not opted to go to Martha’s hospital as she caught sight of the large queue of people ahead of them, but, as time passed and they edged progressively closer to the front, she couldn’t help but feel it was for the best. When they were at last seen to, she was exhausted and slumped against her sister, unable to muster much energy to speak, let alone protest when they started to examine her.

There was a painful cleaning up of the wound, which burned, then the stitches, which tugged, and then… well, an interminable wait, as the nursing staff all disappeared for reasons that the sisters found themselves unclear on.

“Want to go home,” Clara mumbled sleepily, closing her eyes and burrowing into her twin’s shoulder. “Please. Want to go home, please, that’s all, please…”

“I know,” Bonnie extricated herself from the embrace, getting up and sticking her head out of the cubicle. “I’ll go and see what I can find out, OK? Just… stay put and stay safe.”

“Mm hm.”

Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to drift off, only to find herself jolted awake what felt like seconds later by a rough hand on her shoulder. Her eyes snapped open and she let out a cry of shock as she took in the man stood over her.

“Hello, Impossible Girl,” DCI Smith said with a smirk. “This _is_ a disappointment, isn’t it?”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding herself at risk of arrest, Clara has to think fast...

“Shit,” Clara yelped, then scrambled into a sitting position, pulling the blanket on the bed around her shoulders as though that might provide her some protection from the wrath of DCI Smith. “What… what the hell are you doing here?”

“It’s funny,” he mused, and despite her exhaustion, she found herself wanting to slap the smug grin off his face. She felt her body tensing, preparing to fight or flight, although she doubted her own ability to run. “You see, tonight, someone attempted to rob a very upmarket property belonging to a reasonably well-known minor celebrity over in Highgate. They did a runner when the owner set their Alsatian on them, but we found blood on the gate. Quite a lot of blood, as it goes. Enough to make us think they might have gouged themselves on it somewhat painfully.”

“So?”

“So, we put out an alert to local hospitals to see if anyone matched that description. And when a young lady came in bleeding from a leg injury that she says was caused by glass, the nurses thought that was a wee bit suspicious and gave us a call. They were very helpful, if I’m honest. Very willing to assist.”

“Shit,” Clara muttered, realising that that was most likely where the medical staff had vanished to. So much for being safe at an unfamiliar hospital. “OK, you’ve got me. I confess.”

“So, Impossible Girl — or should I call you Oswin Latimer? I suspect that isn’t your real name — how do you fancy a quick trip down the station?” John asked with genial familiarity, as though offering her some kind of wonderful prize. “Free trip in a police car, to boot?”

“No, thanks. I’m alright.”

“Oh, I think so. I’ll be the toast of London — catching the elusive, conniving bitch who keeps causing problems for the wealthy.”

“Please. With an accent like that, do you really think I’m going to believe you’re a defender of the wealthy? No chance. Glaswegian, right? The rough end? I bet your parents were thrilled when you signed up,” Clara forced herself to scoff, but her heart was racing. Where was Bonnie? If she came back, there was no telling what John would do — arrest them both? Use her twin as leverage? She couldn’t risk that. “I’ll make you a deal.”

“No. _I_ tried to make a deal with you, remember? You’d go straight and stop playing silly beggars and I’d not have to bother you again. It looks like you haven’t stopped acting like a cat burglar, so I guess I’m going to have to bother you.”

“Well, aren’t you an upstanding citizen?” Clara hissed, her patience waning. “Arresting someone from a hospital bed, how remarkably _kind_ of you. I knew you were full of shit when you said that. So much for the police trying to work on their shiny new cuddly image.”

He blinked, looking momentarily wrong-footed by her words. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Regardless of who I am or what I’ve done, there’s still a two-inch gash in my leg.”

“Oh, good. Well, I’ll make sure I go easy on you as I drag you out to the car.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“What, drag you? Watch me.”

When he reached for her arm, Clara did the one thing she could think of to catch him off-guard: she lunged forward and kissed him, hard. It wasn’t romantic — far from it, it was primal and desperate and borne of necessity — but it seemed to serve its purpose, as for a moment he froze and she was able to swing her legs out of bed. As she was about to lower herself to the floor, however, he seemed to regain a notion of sensibility and pushed her back, hard, by the shoulders, before moving with a surprising amount of speed to roll her over and twist both her arms up behind her back. Finding her face pressed uncomfortably into the duvet, she tried to suck in a breath to scream but instead found her arms yanked even higher, cold metal cuffs being placed around her wrists and snapped shut.

“Don’t even think about screaming,” John snarled, and Clara realised, with a lurch, that she may have pushed him too far. “I will not hesitate to call in uniform and tell them that you’re not being compliant. I might even feel the need to have them tase you on grounds of you being a threat to officers in the line of duty.”

“I’m in a hospital,” Clara protested, both her shoulders screaming in agony. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and for the first time she felt genuine panic as she realised that she might not be able to wriggle out of this one. “Remember?”

“So?”

“So, I’m at medical risk of harm. Tasing me would not do me a lot of good, and I don’t fancy you having to explain that you’d sent me into cardiac arrest.”

“I don’t care,” John spat, adjusting the cuffs so that the metal bit into her wrists. “You’ve just assaulted a police officer, so anything I do to you from here on in is warranted as self-defence.”

“What did I assault you with? My mouth? Yeah, terrifying. How absolutely lethal of me. Why not just go the whole hog and call in some snipers?”

“Don’t be fucking mouthy, or I’ll add to the charges. Thus far, we’ve got every single one of the men you’ve fleeced, plus assaulting a police officer and resisting arrest.”

“Right.”

“So, down to the station it is.”

“Fine,” Clara’s arms were starting to lose sensation, and she forced herself to become meek and compliant, knowing that it would be the best way to get DCI Smith to loosen his grip on her. “Fine, just please…”

“What?”

“You’re hurting me.”

“Good,” he snapped, but relinquished his hold on her a fraction, yanking her to her feet and marching her down the corridors towards reception. Clara caught sight of her twin, half-hidden behind a pillar, and as she watched, she saw Bonnie’s face crumple even as she ducked behind a pillar to avoid piquing the DCI’s interest. _Sensible girl,_ Clara thought to herself with pride, adding in Bonnie’s general direction: _I’ll see you soon. I promise._

DCI Smith continued to push her in front of him, all the way outside and across the car park to an unmarked vehicle, before yanking open the back door and shoving her roughly inside. As he leaned across her to buckle her seatbelt, she could feel the fury emanating from him; his whole body shaking with rage at the fact that she had defied him and, worse still, caught him off-guard with the kiss.

“You know,” she said conversationally as he pulled away, slammed the door, and then climbed into the driver’s seat. “You have no chance whatsoever of making the charge stick, don’t you?”

“Which one?” he taunted. “The one where I accuse you of being the Impossible Girl — which you are; the one about you assaulting an officer — which you did; or the one about resisting arrest — which you also did?”

“Any of them.”

“And why would that be?”

“You’re going to find out.”

“Shut your mouth,” he muttered, starting the engine and switching on the radio to drown her out. “You’re going to find out just how nasty the Met can be, mark my words.”

 

* * *

 

John found himself in an unusually good mood as he approached the custody suite the next morning. He had, to his considerable irritation, been stopped from interviewing the Impossible Girl — or Katherine, or Oswin, or whatever the hell she was claiming her name was — the previous evening by the good-for-nothing custody sergeant, who had bleated something about injuries and reasonable recovery time, so he’d been forced to hand her over into custody overnight, and told to come back at a more sensible hour.

That hour was now, and he couldn’t help but walk with a spring in his step as he realised he was about to conduct an interview with London’s most notorious woman. Moving back to England’s shithole of a capital city might actually be worth it if he was able to make her talk — and he _would_ make her talk, there was no doubt about that.

Drawing to a halt in front of the custody suite desk, he affixed the sergeant on duty with a wide smile. “Sergeant Khan,” he said brightly, forcing himself to be as personable as he could manage. “Lovely morning, eh? I’m here for my suspect, if that’s alright. Now it’s a more reasonable hour, and all.”

He hated this. He hated having to toady up to someone who was young enough to be his daughter, but remaining in PS Khan’s good books was instrumental to keeping his investigation running smoothly.

“Do you mean Oswin Latimer?” PS Khan asked, furrowing her brow as she looked over at her computer monitor and tapped a few keys on her keyboard. “Because she was released without charge an hour ago.”

“She was…” John blinked at her, not understanding what she was saying. “She was what?”

“Released,” Sergeant Khan repeated slowly and clearly, as though he were stupid. “She was cleared of all charges.”

“Released by who?!” John exploded, his good mood evaporating as the custody sergeant’s words sunk in. “Who the bloody hell would be stupid enough to clear her of all charges?! She’s the Impossible Girl! What kind of moron-”

“ _I_ would be that moron,” Detective Superintendent Kate Stewart said drily, approaching him with a bemused expression and a cup of takeaway coffee held in each hand. She looked to be on the verge of holding one out to him, then stopped herself, taking a sip from one cup and handing the other to a confused Sergeant Khan. “But sure, John, do keep mouthing off to poor Yasmin.”

“I…” he blinked at her in staggered stupefaction, unable to grasp why on earth his superior would have released his suspect. “Why… what…”

“One of her friends came in this morning and attested that the young woman in question was with her in a pub last night during the time of the alleged robbery. We have it on CCTV. You’re welcome to check.”

“That’s… but that’s…” his brain threw him a lifeline and he held up a hand. “She assaulted me.”

“Really?” Kate frowned, looking entirely unconvinced by his words. “She’s five foot two, John. She’s got a two-inch gash in her leg and serious blood loss. I sincerely doubt she was able to assault you.”

“Did you ask her how the injury happened, at least?”

“Yeah, she fell on some glass. Her friend confirmed it.”

“I bet they bloody well did. Who was this friend?”

“Amelia… something. Lake? Stream? Something like that. I’m sure if you ask nicely, PS Khan will check for you.”

“Sure,” the custody sergeant smiled sweetly at Kate, then shot John a sour look before turning her attention to her screen and clicking through several menus. “It was Amelia Jessica Pond.”

“That has to be a fake name.”

“No, she provided ID.”

“And have we checked out the address? Have we followed up on leads?”

“What leads, John?” Kate raised her eyebrows in exasperation. “The poor girl was innocent. Worse still, you _borderline assaulted_ her, _while she was in hospital,_ and then dragged her in here — she must be traumatised by the whole bloody thing. I’ll be surprised if she doesn’t go to the bloody IPCC.”

“The what?”

“The Independent Police Complaints Commission, John. They police the police down here in this crappy country you seem to hate so much. So, well done for bringing them down on our arses. I hope you’re bloody pleased.”

“But-”

“No. I want a written report on my desk by this evening, and then I want an apology for your behaviour that I can pass on to the poor woman.”

“Fine,” he said stiffly. “Fuckin’… fine.”

 

* * *

 

“Thank god,” Clara breathed, sinking down onto her bed with gratitude and allowing herself, finally, to exhale. “That was _way_ too close for comfort.”

“How are you not, like, several hours deep into a nervous breakdown?” Amy asked with fascination, leaning in the doorway and raising her eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“That happened while I was in there. I’m currently in a tripped-out post-meltdown haze of endorphins. It’s fantastic,” Clara sat up a little, her expression hopeful. “Could I have a cup of tea?”

“Sure, once you’ve explained what the hell is going on.”

“I injured my leg last night, the police were looking for someone with an injured leg, they put two and two together, and got five.”

“Right. And me having gone to Spoons with Bonnie-”

“Was really convenient, actually, thanks.”

“Why couldn’t you have just used your actual alibi?”

“Because my actual alibi is that I was having unbelievable sex with a married man,” Clara said solemnly, watching Amy’s face remain impassive and then groaning at the lack of response. “Fine. Because I was drinking wine alone and watching the sunset on Primrose Hill. Which isn’t exactly convincing, is it?”

“Not overly, no.”

“I owe you one for this, Amy,” Clara said with gratitude, also offering a silent prayer of thanks to Psi for having had the good sense to set up a fake persona for her some months ago. “Really. That officer was a total bastard, he wouldn’t listen to me, and you saved my arse in a major way. Thank you.”

“Anytime, babe,” Amy grinned mischievously. “Fuck the police, honestly.”

“Exactly,” Clara murmured, smiling to herself. “Fuck the police.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when John thinks he's getting somewhere, he makes a discovery that changes everything.

John stared down at his desk, trying to decide how to begin trawling through the masses of paperwork that he had stacked into haphazard piles based on categories surrounding the Impossible Girl. There was one dedicated to witness statements, one detailing the evidence she had left at crime scenes (or lack thereof), and one, much smaller pile, that consisted of his notes on the unknown woman based on their encounters. It wasn’t a great deal to go on — more scrawls than anything else — but it was better than nothing, he supposed, and he was on the verge of picking up a witness statement to make notes on when the door to his office was flung open with considerable force and he leapt up from his seat, swearing as he did so. 

“Christ,” Kate said with barely suppressed amusement, all but doubling over with laughter as she stepped over the threshold bearing a brimming mug of coffee in each hand. “I didn’t think you were that nervous, John. You _almost_ screamed like a small child. Almost. Next time, I’ll make sure you do.”

“I’m not used to women sneaking up on me,” he shot back, as Kate set the mugs down and flopped into the chair opposite him, still chuckling at his reaction. “Don’t do that. If I was an American officer, I could’ve shot you.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” Kate took a sip of coffee, then grinned conspiratorially. “You’d be way too busy eating doughnuts to reach for your gun.” 

“I think you’re being very racist.” 

“Says the man who just linked being American with having a gun?” 

“Yeah, alright,” he rolled his eyes and reached for the mug of coffee she had brought him, taking a long, appreciative sip and then wondering what he had done to merit being brought a hot drink. Or, more likely, what Kate wanted from him. “What can I do for you?” 

“Just thought I’d come and check up on your welfare,” Kate said with an easy shrug, but he could see that below the casual, professionally detached exterior, there was a glimmer of genuine concern for him. “You’re not… I don’t know, mingling the way you should.” 

“Sorry, I wasn’t aware I was supposed to be mingling or socialising. I was under the impression that I was hired to solve crimes and get my job done to the highest possible standard. There wasn’t a banter clause in the contract, or I wouldn’t have signed it. I’m opposed to banter.” 

“John, this isn’t Glasgow. You can’t just throw yourself into things and shut out the people around you for the sake of… well, I have no idea. Keeping up appearances?” 

“Why can’t I?” he narrowed his eyes, setting his coffee down and steepling his hands in front of him. “I got results up there, and I didn’t have to piss about being nice to any English nancies.” 

“Excuse me,” she reminded him coolly. “I’m an ‘English nancy,’ and also your superior officer.”

“Ach, so write a note on my record,” he muttered sourly, slouching back in his chair. “I’m here to do my job.” 

“John, London is… different to what you’re used to. You need to mix with people; make connections; maybe even make friends,” Kate grinned at him, a wicked glimmer in her eye. “Maybe even… get your leg over?” 

“Kate!” John scowled, horrified by the very suggestion. “I’m not making friends for the sake of making friends. That’s a load of crap, and besides, I don’t need friends to do my job.” 

“No, but the others think you’re a bit…” she fell silent, waving her hand as she searched for the right word. 

“Professional?”

“Aloof,” she had the good grace to look apologetic as she spoke. “It wouldn’t hurt to have a drink after work with the team, would it? One night a week, at least?”

“I…” he sighed, knowing he would have to admit the truth of the matter to her and already hating himself for expressing vulnerability. “I feel like they’re comparing me to him, and I feel like they hate me for taking his place.” 

“Who? Danny? Well, you _did_ take his place; at least as far as HR is concerned.”

“Thanks.” 

“But being an aloof arsehole who shuts himself in his boxy little office all day and never bothers to buy a round isn’t going to win them over to your cause.” 

“I get the point. Come and get plastered with a bunch o’ wee ones who are young enough to be my children.”

“Why are you being so misanthropically Scottish about this?” 

“Because I’m not interested in being friends with anyone, Kate. At my time of life, there isn’t a lot of point.”

“Fuck me, John, you’re not a geriatric yet. You’ve got a good thirty years left in you. That’s a long bloody time to spend focusing on…” she reached for a nearby witness statement, casting an appraising eye over it and then arching an eyebrow quizzically. “The Impossible Girl. Again?” 

“Still,” he corrected, wanting more than anything to be left to his own devices. “I need to catch her.”

“Why? There’s other cases that need your attention, and would do a lot more good if you could crack them.” 

“I just… do.”

Kate set the statement down, her hand creeping over the desk and snagging an item from his “personal experience” pile before he could stop her. She looked down at the scribbled notes with a confused expression that quickly turned to exasperation as she scanned the page. “John, for god’s sake. This is all about that Oswin girl, isn’t it?” 

“Maybe,” he muttered, dropping his gaze and trying to keep his temper. “I know it’s her, Kate.” 

“We have an alibi for her!”

“A weak one!”

“Why is it weak?” 

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t feel right! Something about the CCTV footage isn’t right — that woman’s body language is all wrong-”

“Because you’re an expert in such matters? You’re a psychologist now?” 

“She isn’t sat like she owns the room, Kate. The Impossible Girl is arrogant, cunning, and deceitful. She doesn’t sit passively in the corner looking like she wants to disappear.” 

“Right. You want to know what I think?” 

“No,” John said at once. “I really don’t.”

“I think you’re getting so invested in this case because it reminds you of-” 

“Don’t you dare say it,” he snarled. “Don’t you bloody well dare.” 

“-of Missy and what happened there. Newsflash, John. She isn’t Missy.” 

“How dare you? How… how _fucking_ dare you make that assertion?”

“John, this woman? She isn’t going to snap. She isn’t going to kill anyone.”

“They said that about Missy, too,” he said through gritted teeth. “I never thought she was capable of doing what she did… always wrote her off as being slightly mad, or slightly bad, or slightly eccentric. And then…” 

“And then?” 

“And then she murdered my wife, Kate. Remember? It was kind of a big deal at the time.” 

“Why are you letting this get to you so much?” 

“Letting what get to me? My wife being murdered?” 

“Not to be _that_ bitch, but wasn’t she your ex-wife at the time?” 

“Don’t be fucking pedantic,” he snapped. “And, while you’re at it, get out of my office.” 

“You can’t send me out of your office, I’m your-” 

“Superior officer. You’ve mentioned. Several times. Get out.” 

“John-” 

“Kate, as your friend, I’m asking you to please fuck off before I really lose my rag with you. OK? That really won’t win me any pals, so just… go.”   

“Fine,” she held up her hands in submission, getting to her feet with a sigh. “Just know that people care about you, alright?” 

“Fine,” he muttered, switching on his computer monitor in a clear cue for Kate to leave. “Got it.” 

She dithered for a moment, visibly caught between wanting to say something else and remaining obediently silent, before leaving with a regretful sigh. Once the door had closed behind her, John clenched and unclenched his fists, taking deep breaths and staring, unseeingly, at his screen as he attempted to regain some semblance of composure. 

Was he so hung up on this because of what Missy had done? Was Kate right? It was an unthinkable idea, to admit that his oldest friend might be correct about something — it would be like catnip to Kate to know that she had guessed his intentions correctly — and yet… maybe there was some truth to it. Was the Impossible Girl another killer in the making? The worry consumed him, compounded by the lack of clear evidence that may or may not have provided some clues to her intentions. The witness statements he had were poorly written and lacking basic details; the evidence collected was scant; and the recording of dates and times and locations was sufficiently slapdash as to render any outsider entirely confused. DI Pink had truly been in the woman’s thrall, that much was clear, and for the thousandth time he considered telling Kate the truth. He could lie and suggest that the records’ lack of depth alerted him to something suspect, but that was a weak untruth and he knew it. He would be cross-examined, and he would be forced to admit to having met with the suspect before, and he would be lampooned for failing to apprehend her at the time. No, telling Kate was an impossibility. 

Instead, he would have to catch the woman. That was all he could do to prove anyone wrong, and all he could do to prove _himself_ to this new force. Glasgow had never been this complicated. He had done his job; he had apprehended criminals; he had got results. There had been no silly social side of things — or not to the same extent, at least; he recalled the occasional Friday evening in the local boozer with his team — and he hadn’t been expected to socialise or forge connections. He supposed that his past was well-known enough back in Scotland for people to understand his surliness and his reticence to get to know anyone, and that suited him just fine. It had hung over him like a cloud, driving people far enough away so as to be comfortable in his misery.

It had been twelve years, and still the spectre of River’s murder hung over him. People might mistake it for devotion, or a long-standing refusal to accept that she was truly gone, but it was neither. It was the way she had been taken from him, and who by. It was what had happened in the days that had followed, and how the truth had been revealed to him in a blaze of sirens and screaming and psychiatrists’ reports. 

He closed his eyes, determined not to dwell on the past. He would solve this case. That was what mattered. He would solve it, and to start with he needed to look at the information he had. The Impossible Girl had used a name and identity that he was almost entirely sure was fake, and so the onus fell on those surrounding her. She had received an alibi from a woman with another fantastically improbable name but who had provided identification supporting her claims, so he would follow that lead. 

He knew that using the Met's database would immediately alert Kate to his covert investigations, so instead he typed the name “Amelia Jessica Pond” into the electoral register with shaking fingers, and the result was almost instantaneous. A match on the list, with more than enough information to provide him with a trail to follow.

_Miss Amelia Jessica Pond_

_11 Trenzalore Road, Shoreditch, E2 8TS_  

Grinning to himself, he searched again by address, and found a list of names. If nothing else, he could investigate who she lived with to see how reliable this Amelia was as a provider of an alibi.

_Residents at 11 Trenzalore Road, Shoreditch, E2 8TS (information correct as at 15.03.14 16:09:34)_

_Miss Martha Jones_  
_Miss Bonnie Oswald_  
_Miss Clara Oswald_  
_Miss Amelia Jessica Pond_  
_Mr Rory Williams_

The cohabiting of two women with the same surname was unusual enough to pique his interest, and John sighed, minimising the electoral database in favour of typing the names into Google. He tried Bonnie first, and as he hit Search and pulled up the results, he almost fell off his chair in shock.

_Bonnie Oswald Profiles | Facebook_

_Images_

There she was, smiling back at him. The Impossible Girl, beaming and innocuous as she gazed out of a photograph of her stood in front of the Eiffel Tower. As he clicked onto her profile, he felt his hands shaking as he looked through pictures of the previously mysterious woman, unable to contain his glee. He had found her. It had been insultingly easy, but he had found her. He would bring her in that very evening. He would prove Kate wrong. He would prove  _everyone_ wrong.

He idly clicked the Next arrow as he scrolled and felt his blood turn to ice.

Onscreen, two women were stood together at a Halloween party, both of them dressed as Wednesday Addams. Their makeup and hair were exact duplicates of each other’s, and their costumes were carbon copies of the same dress.

That wasn’t what had shocked John.

What had robbed him of the ability to breathe was that the identicality extended to their faces — both of them as alike as if one had looked into a mirror.

Suddenly, the two names made sense. 

Suddenly, things had become a lot more complicated.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John confronts... well, he isn't sure which of them, but an Oswald twin.

If questioned, John would fervently deny wanting to scare the Oswald twins — either of them. 

In reality, as he watched one of them step out of their house and set off down the road towards him, engrossed in hunting for something in their handbag, the opportunity to frighten them was too good to pass up. As she passed him, he pushed away from the wall he was leaning on and took silent, measured steps towards the young woman, waiting until he was directly behind her before grabbing her by the upper arm. A scream, warm and panicked, bubbled from her lips almost at once, and he clamped his free hand over her mouth as he pulled her into an alleyway, well away from prying eyes. 

“Hello,” he said conversationally, as she began twisting and squirming in his grasp and trying to get away from him. He could feel her breath coming in short, terrified pants against his hand, and it wasn’t until she began to cry with fear that he realised two things in quick succession: 

One — this was not the Impossible Girl. Her look of confusion and terror was far too genuine for her to have been the woman he had met before. 

Two — whichever twin she was, she was having a panic attack. 

“Shit,” he muttered, letting go of her arm and fishing in his pocket for his warrant card. She kept trying to pull away from him until he held it up, letting her read the information before continuing: “I’m not going to hurt you. If I take my hand away from your mouth, do you promise not to scream?”

There was a brief pause as she weighed up the idea, and then she nodded. He removed his hand and then stood awkwardly as he realised that the panic attack was not abating — if anything, it was becoming worse. She doubled over, leaning against the wall for support as she fought to catch her breath and calm down. 

“Shit,” he muttered again, feeling a rush of guilt. “Urm, are you alright?”

“Being…” she managed, and he was taken aback by not only how much she looked like her sister, but how much she _sounded_ like her too. “Being… grabbed… not…”

“I’m sorry,” he said with sincerity, unsure how to help. “I didn’t know which one you were, and I didn’t want you doing a runner.” 

“Yeah…” she gasped, letting out a nervous laugh despite herself. “That’s… going well… isn’t it?” 

“I know you’re not _her_.” 

“So…” she inhaled deeply, then wiped her eyes with her sleeve as her breathing began to slow. “Which one… do you… think I am?” 

“I could just check, you know?” He had weighed up the pros and cons of doing so, and now his concern about scaring her had passed, he knew it would be easy enough to overpower her and take her wallet, look through it for some form of identification, and then let her go. “Or you could tell me.”

“No chance.” 

“This isn’t protecting her, you know that, don’t you?” 

“I don’t care,” she seemed to calm further in the face of his bravado. “I’m still not telling you. I’m not throwing her under a bus for the sake of getting you a result for your crime figures.” 

“What about if I threatened to bring you in? Would that convince you?” 

“You won’t do that.” 

“You seem very sure.” 

“After Amy’s alibi was given, I’ll bet that the higher-ups have told you to forget following any leads related to me or my sister. I’ll also bet that you’re worried how they’ll see you if you aren’t dragging in the one-hundred-percent honest-to-god culprit, and you can’t do that with me, can you? If you take me in, they’ll know you’ve been worrying away at the alibi and at the so-called lead it provides, and you’ll be in the shit.”

“How…” he blinked at her, finding himself equal parts aggravated and impressed by her ability to read the situation. “How could you possibly know that?” 

“My sister told me about your attitude problems, and besides, I’m a good judge of people.” 

“Are you going to tell me your sister’s name?” 

“No, I don’t think I am.” 

“Why not? I’ll wager that you don’t like what she’s doing. And I’ll wager that you aren’t exactly reaping the profits — not if you’re still in that run-down heap of a house.” 

“Neither of us are reaping the profits, DCI Smith,” she let out a bitter laugh. “I think you overestimate our desire for a lavish lifestyle — we aren’t Kardashians.” 

“Why don’t you want that?”

“It’s never interested either of us to live the jet-set life. What my sister chooses to spend money on is her business, not mine. I’m not her mother.” 

“You could make it your business. You could try to find out for me and I might not then be inclined to charge you with perverting the course of justice when I bring her in.” 

“You want me to spy on my own twin sister?” 

“Yes, I do,” he smirked, praying that she would take him up on the deal. “How about it?” 

“You really underestimate us, you know that?” she scoffed. “I’m not going to do that. I love her, and I will keep her safe until my last breath, and I will _not_ do that by spying on her for some scumbag police inspector.” 

“You know,” he spat, beginning to lose patience with her evasiveness and her refusal to co-operate. “There is nothing in this world stopping me from pinning you against that wall-” 

“Steady now, Detective Chief Inspector.” 

“-and searching you now. There is nothing to stop me from finding something so incriminating on you or on your personal devices that you will spend the best decades of your life in prison.” 

“Are you _threatening_ me?” 

John thought for a moment. “Yes. Yes, I am.” 

She raised her head, setting her jaw defiantly. “Do your worst,” she challenged. “Go on. But know that I will scream like I’m being fucking _murdered_ , and I will be first to complain about your wandering hands and your leery behaviour.”

“I don’t have-”

“Who are they going to believe, hm?”

“Who are they going to believe when I tell them _you_ assaulted _me_? Me, a well-esteemed DCI, or the sister of a scummy little criminal?”

“Wow, DCI Smith. This is really escalating, isn’t it? How about we both agree that you’ll fuck off and leave me and my sister alone, and I won’t tell the IPCC about this little incident, yeah?” 

He growled in frustration. “Fine,” he muttered, taking a step away from her. “Go on. Leave, before I change my mind.” 

“Go fuck yourself,” she said sweetly, adjusting her bag on her shoulder and heading back towards the main road. “Alright? Nice meeting you. Really. Absolute honour.”

 

* * *

 

Clara was sat in the lounge by herself, flicking through TV channels and considering cracking open a bottle of wine, when Bonnie all but fell through the front door, her breath coming in short, agonised gasps. For one horrifying minute, Clara feared she might have been attacked or stabbed, but when a split-second appraisal revealed no blood, she found herself confused instead. 

“Bon?” she said at once, crossing to her sister’s side and trying not to succumb to the panic rising in her own chest. “What happened? What’s wrong?” 

“I…” her sister dissolved into sobs, putting her hands over her face. “DCI Smith.” 

Clara’s blood ran cold at the mention of his name. “What? What is it?”

“He’s… he knows we’re here.”

Clara felt her world stop in response to her sister’s words. She had been so careful at covering her tracks, how could he have- 

“Amy gave her name,” she realised aloud, inwardly groaning at her own stupidity. It had seemed such a foolproof plan, and she had hoped than DCI Smith’s superiors would be persistently condemnatory enough to discourage him from following up on the lead Amy had unwittingly provided. Clearly, she had been wrong. “Does he know which of us is which?” 

“Clara, our own housemates struggle. Of course he doesn’t.” 

“Thank god.” 

“But he knew I wasn’t you.” 

“He _what_?” 

“When he grabbed me — I panicked, I couldn’t help it, and that gave away that I wasn’t you. I guess he thought you would be too tough for that, or you’d have hit him, or… god, I should’ve hit him, I shouldn’t have been so stupid and weak and had a panic attack like a fucking idiot…” 

“Bon,” Clara said softly, folding her twin into a hug, feeling her own breath starting to catch in her chest. “Hey, it’s alright. I would’ve reacted in the same way, you know I would’ve. Especially after everything. How did you get away?”

“He threatened me.” 

“I will fucking kill him,” Clara vowed at once, her fear crystallising into fury. “I will go to that station, and I will kill him, I swear to god.” 

“No!” Bonnie said at once, her eyes wide and frightened as she shook her head desperately. “No, Clara, you can’t — you mustn’t! You’ll get in trouble, and I can’t… you know I can’t lose you.”

“What did he threaten you with?”

“He said he could prosecute me or arrest me. He wanted to search me but I was just… I don’t know, he just didn’t; he didn’t seem to press it, but then he said if I didn’t tell him then he’d… he’d…”

“He’d what?” 

“He threatened to frame me. I don’t know how — drugs or indecent images or s-something…” 

“I swear to god, I will tear him limb from bloody limb. The piece of fucking _shit_.” 

“I-I told him he wouldn’t, because if he did I’d tell his superiors he’d harassed me or felt me up or whatever and he seemed… I don’t know, he seemed worried enough to let me go, but I don’t think he’s going to drop this, Clara. He wanted me to spy on you, for god’s sake.”

“And you said…?” 

“No!” Bonnie looked scandalised by the question. “Of course I said no!” 

“Pity, we could’ve used that to our advantage.” 

“Clara, no!” Bonnie buried her face in her sister’s shoulder, shaking with renewed sobs. “I want you to be safe. I want you to be happy. I don’t want to have to play cat and mouse with the police to try and be able to have a normal life.” 

“We _can_ have a normal life.”

“Not when we’re spending every moment scared for our lives.” 

“I’m not scared,” Clara bluffed, giving a devil-may-care little shrug. “Who’s scared?”

“We both know you are.” 

“Don’t talk shit.” 

“You-” 

“You’re in shock. I’m going to make us a cuppa, alright? Stay put. Find something really craptastic to watch on TV.” 

Before her sister could answer back, Clara had scrambled out of their embrace and headed into the kitchen. With a trembling hand, she flicked the kettle on, before getting herself a glass of water and taking shaky sips, leaning back against the counter and trying not to allow her own panic to consume her. 

Despite her assertions to Bonnie, she _was_ scared. It was impossible not to be — there was no knowing the lengths that DCI Smith would go to in order to work out who was who out of herself and her twin, or the lengths he would go to in order to frame them both if he failed to separate the two women’s identities. Bonnie had been dragged into this life now, kicking and screaming and against her will, and Clara vowed to do her utmost to keep her safe from harm. 

Her twin had always been the quieter of the two, happy to let Clara take charge, and so she would take charge in this instance and she would keep her sister safe. She wasn’t sure how, and she wasn’t sure what it would take, but she would do it. She had made a promise to her mother to look after Bonnie, and she wasn’t about to break her word now. Whatever it would take — money, sex, violence — she would do it. She’d chosen this life, but those around her had not, so whatever she could do to keep them safe, at whatever cost — she would do it. 

The kettle boiled with a faint _click,_ and she jumped, the glass slipping from her hands and shattering in the sink.

“Fuck,” she muttered, swiping the palm of her hand over her eyes. “Come on, Oswald. Toughen up.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a brainwave. The only problem is that involves relying on someone... someone who isn't exactly his biggest fan.

John couldn’t help it. He knew it was wrong to allow himself to be suckered in by the growing mystery of the Impossible Girl, and yet, with each passing day, he found himself becoming more and more intrigued. It had been the best sort of case — in his opinion, at least — even before he had known that the offender was one of an identical pair, but now? Now it was maddening, and frustrating, and all the more engrossing for the new level of complexity it brought to the whole affair. That, along with the fact that he was still trying to keep his ongoing investigations a secret from Kate, combined and intensified to fuel him with an intoxicating rush of adrenaline as he spent covert hours at his desk, trawling through the Internet in the hopes of differentiating between the two sisters and being able to drag one of them in and charge her with the litany of crimes she had committed. 

He supposed his life might be somewhat easier if he had more knowledge of how exactly you were supposed to use social media, but as it was he simply found himself circling back to their Facebook pages time and time again, noting — with a stab of annoyance — that they had changed some unknown setting somewhere, because now all he could see was their most recent profile picture, and nothing more. His own stupidity had cost him a valuable source of information — if he had waited, or not confronted whichever twin he had met in the street, perhaps he would now be able to investigate more thoroughly. Instead, he had let his pride and bravado take over, and it had cost him dearly. He was having to think increasingly more creatively to find information, and he was no longer limiting his hunt to work hours, using his laptop at home to dig for clues when insomnia struck.

Except for their Facebook pages, there was, he was discovering, a maddening lack of information about either twin anywhere on the Internet. He didn’t consider himself a technological whiz, but he was far from a dinosaur when it came to computers, and yet still… there was a suspicious lack of data on either of them. There was an archive of articles written by Clara for her university newspaper — dull and rather uninteresting things about recycling on campus and changes to the students’ union — and a few by Bonnie from around the same era, reviewing indie albums and art house films, but otherwise there was almost nothing. No additional social media profiles, no LinkedIn accounts, no mention of either of them on local news websites. It seemed statistically unlikely that there could be no trace of two women online, save for their locked-down Facebook pages and dusty old articles from their student days. 

There had to be someone else — someone working with them to cover their tracks. John spent hours looking into the existence of Oswin Latimer, the woman they had brought in from the hospital, and it was only due to his knowledge that hers was a fabricated identity that he was able to tell that her medical records and entry on the electoral register were fake. The level of depth given to fleshing the character out was extreme — there were immunisations listed from “Oswin’s” babyhood, and records of childhood illnesses — and could only be the work of someone highly skilled. The problem stemmed from the fact that tracing whoever it was that created these records seemed… almost totally impossible. How could you trace someone whose speciality was evading others being traced?

He thought, with regret, of the course on cyber-crime he had ducked out of attending while he was still in Glasgow. He’d dismissed it at the time as some boring modern rubbish that didn’t concern him and never would — how wrong he had been. He wished fervently that he’d gone, and he wished even more fervently that he was able to discuss the case with Kate, but he knew that doing so would only merit accusations of obsession and potentially a suspension for going against her wishes. He knew it was wrong of him to be so hung up on the case, and yet, somehow… somehow he couldn’t stop himself from getting deeper and deeper into it all, spending hours of each shift poring over the witness statements and evidence he had, trying to get inside the head of the Impossible Girl herself. 

Was she more likely to have been Clara, whose articles revealed a quiet, conscientious writer, and whose Facebook painted her as being demure and unassuming? Or was she Bonnie, whose articles were full of fire and passion, and whose profile revealed a fun-loving person who enjoyed travel and fancy dress? He was swinging increasingly towards the latter, convincing himself the twin he encountered had been Clara, but he knew that his hunch was not enough to arrest anyone, or even bring them in for questioning.

He was aware that there was a solution that could provide him with more clues, and yet he was loathe to search through the Met database. Kate had access to his search history — a necessary rule enforced in each station, lest anyone unscrupulously try to erase a family member’s parking charge or shoplifting caution — and he knew that she would come down on him like a ton of bricks if she saw any names there that he hadn’t discussed with her. He knew it was a terrible idea to even entertain, and yet it niggled away at him, tempting him, until finally he came up with a plan that was rudimentary and somewhat callous, but hopefully effective. 

His target, he had decided, was PS Khan, and, as he wove through the desks and chairs that littered the open-plan office where she was based when she wasn’t in the custody suite, he silently thanked god that, box-like as his own office was, at least it wasn’t shared with tens of other people, all of whom seemed impossibly loud and irritating. He tried to ignore the curious stares of the uniformed officers around him, unaccustomed as they were to seeing him anywhere other than the kitchen, the toilet, or his office, and instead he focused on PS Khan, who was staring at her computer, totally unaware of his presence.

“Hi,” he said brightly as he reached her desk, and she jumped, looking up at him and visibly steeling herself when she realised who had come to speak to her. “Don’t look so worried, I’m not here to berate you.”

“So, why are you here?” she asked, and there was an edge to her voice that took him by surprise. “Because the likes of you don’t speak to people like me unless they want something, and I’ve never even see you engage with a uniform before.”

“Meaning?” John replied, knowing that — with characteristic northern forthrightness — she would be honest with him, and relishing the opportunity for a conversation that wasn’t shrouded in polite nuances and faux-niceness. 

“Meaning, you think you’re better than us.” 

“I don’t,” he said with sincerity. “Honestly, I’m just… new.” 

“New people don’t usually spend all their time shut up in their office. They actually come to the pub with us and try to make a good impression. Kate did, anyway.” 

“I’m not Kate.”

“No,” Khan said with a shrug and a small, indecipherable smirk. “You’re really not. I’ll ask again; what do you want?” 

“My computer won’t let me connect to custody records,” John lied, giving a nonchalant _what can you do_ shrug. “I want to look up that Oswin Latimer character.”

“Does Kate know about this?” Khan asked, raising an eyebrow incredulously. “Because I was under the impression that that poor girl had done nothing wrong. I seem to recall you dragging her in while she cried and bled through her bandage. I had to go and change it; she was dripping blood everywhere. Poor thing.” 

“Well, I just want to check she was treated alright.”

This was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. “Excuse me?!” PS Khan bristled. “What did I _just_ say? Who do you think I am? You think I’d treat anyone with anything less than compassion and respect? You think I’d hurt someone who was already injured — or anyone at all? What do you take me for, DCI Smith? I’m not an animal, and I’m not one to buy into the sort of police brutality you so clearly miss engaging in. It’s a wonder you didn’t feel the need knock seven bells out of her to try to get her to talk.” 

“I…”

She got to her feet, gesticulating furiously to her chair. “You look her up then, idiot. Go on. Look her up and try to work out how you can harass her in future.”

“Where are you…”

“To the kitchen. No, you can’t have a brew. Make it your bloody self.”

John sank into the seat with the most contrite expression he could manage as she stalked off, and he could feel several pairs of eyes boring into his back as he opened the Met database. Apparently his ill-thought-out words had been the right thing to say to get PS Khan out of the way, despite his reservations, and he tried not to look overly triumphant as he typed in Oswin’s name for the sake of upholding his cover story. He knew what would come up, and it held no interest for him. 

With trembling fingers he typed in _Bonnie Oswald_ , then hit _search._  

_Bonnie Alison Oswald. DOB 23 November 1986._

He clicked through several tabs of information before alighting on the one he needed. 

_Employer: University of London – The London School of Economics and Political Science_

There was no further information offered, but John made a mental note to investigate further via the LSE website. Was she teaching? Was she working on campus? If she was teaching, what? Could it provide a clue? He tried to make an orderly mental list of questions to look into when he returned to his own desk. Taking a deep breath, he entered _Clara Oswald_ and hit _enter._  

_Clara Elena Oswald. DOB 23 November 1986._

_Click, click, click._

_Employer: Coal Hill School_

He sat back in his chair, trying to comprehend what he was reading and resisting the urge to groan aloud. 

Twins. Both former journalists, both employed in… well, he could only presume in the teaching profession, although assumptions could prove his undoing. How was he supposed to extricate which woman was which? How was he supposed to- 

“Hello, John,” a voice said from behind him, in the kind of jovial, conversational tone that immediately got his back up. “Want to explain what’s going on?” 

Spinning around, he took in the sight of PS Khan, her arms folded and a smug smirk on her face, as Kate stood beside her with a distinctly bemused expression. 

“Urm,” he said, trying to come up with a convincing lie. “Urm, I…” 

“My office,” Kate said pleasantly, her words at odds with her scowl. “Now.” 

Getting to his feet, John shot PS Khan a dark look as he shuffled after Kate in the direction of her office, feeling a mounting sense of dread as he did so. Stepping over the threshold, he closed the door behind him and turned to face his superior officer, mentally steeling himself for what was to come. 

“Did I…” she began, her tone measured and even as she took a seat and indicated he should do the same. He sat on the extreme edge of the chair opposite her, twisting his hands together in his lap. “…Or did I not politely suggest that you drop it?” 

“Drop what?” 

“Don’t play the bloody innocent with me, John. Drop the Oswin Latimer lead.” 

“You know, did there not used to be a code of honour within the police about not dobbing other officers in?”

“I’m asking the questions here, John,” Kate growled. “So. Did I, or did I not?”

“You did,” he muttered sourly. “OK?” 

“I did,” she nodded in agreement. “So why in the name of all that is holy are you looking her up? On PS Khan’s computer, no less?” 

“Thought it’d be subtle,” he said unwillingly. “I was wrong, wasn’t I?” 

“Very much so. Why the hell haven’t you just done as you were asked and dropped it?” 

“Because…”

“No, I know why. It’s because of Missy. Well, John, for the thousandth bloody time, _she is not Missy_.” 

“I know she’s not!” he snapped, irked by the mention of her name. “But I know that she’s not Oswin Latimer, either. Oswin Latimer _does not exist_.”

“You seem very certain of this.”

“Yes. Because I can tell you now, her real identity is either Bonnie Oswald or Clara Oswald.”

“You…” 

“Look, just humour me. I looked up the woman who provided the alibi and did some digging on the electoral register. She lives with a set of twins — Bonnie and Clara. _Identical_ twins, no less. And, here’s the kicker, they’re _both_ identical to Oswin Latimer.”

“So you’re saying…” 

“Well, either they’ve gone all _Parent Trap_ on us and they have a long-lost identical triplet we don’t know about, which seems unlikely, or else Oswin isn’t a real person, and one of them is our suspect. Yes.” 

“Well, we can’t just drag them both in without due cause.” 

“Correct. Disappointing, but correct.” 

“So, what do you say we set up a little trap?” 

“Kate…” John could feel a rush of excitement and apprehension building in the pit of his stomach. “What did you have in mind?” 

“Jack Robertson is in town-”

“That rich American prick?” 

“Yes,” Kate said drily, arching an eyebrow in consternation. “Him. So, what do you say to letting it be known where he’ll be dining?” 

“What, so she can rob him?” 

“No,” Kate sighed in exasperation. “So you can be there to surprise her.” 

“I think that’s an absolutely fuckin’ insane idea.”

“Let’s get that in the diary then, shall we?”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whatever Clara was expecting from her dinner with Jack Robertson, it wasn't _this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope all my readers had a wonderful festive period! Here’s a late Christmas present.

It was, as jobs go, Clara’s idea of heaven. Jack Robertson was the kind of egotistical bastard who loved to talk about himself, particularly to women of a certain type, and so it had taken very little in the way of persuasion for him to buy her dinner while he spilled both his life story _and_ a neat summary of his business dealings to her, while staring overtly at her cleavage and failing to let her get a word in edgeways. That didn’t matter to Clara. She’d met men of his sort before, and the easiest way to secure a score at the end of the night was to stroke their ego, to listen, and to feign an interest in the deplorable things he took such pride in having done. Listen, laugh, inwardly lament. Think about the payoff at the end. A survival guide in four parts.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Robertson said suddenly, getting to his feet and placing his napkin on the table. “I just have to use the restroom. I’ll be right back to finish my story, sweetheart.” 

“Sure,” Clara forced herself to smile, reaching for her glass of wine and taking a sip while attempting to look coquettish and understanding. “No rush.”

He flashed her what was, she was sure, intended to be a winning smile before sidling off, leaving her alone in their secluded corner of the restaurant. She had the lingering suspicion that he had bought himself privacy and paid for the surrounding tables to be left empty, and for that she thanked god as she reached into her bag and extracted a small vial of clear liquid, pouring it surreptitiously into his glass of wine. 

She’d had her eye on Robertson for months now — he was caught up in developing brownfield land into hotels up and down the country, and there were rumours of corruption and payoffs on a grand scale. He was immoral, he was scheming, and he was devious — but he had the kind of net worth that made her head spin, and he richly deserved the kind of comeuppance that came from being tied up and robbed by a woman, no less. Something about his casually misogynistic attitude and his sheer sense of entitlement would be especially aggravated by that particular fact, and she smirked to herself at the thought of what was to happen later in the evening.

Looking down at her meal, she pushed a forkful of celeriac mash across the plate with a distasteful expression, wondering why the wealthy were so intent on over-complicating simple food. There was nothing wrong with the humble potato other than its own humility, she supposed, so why chefs had so stigmatised it she was unsure. She was lost in her food-centric train of thought when she became aware of the seat opposite her being reoccupied, and she raised her head to offer a winning smile before freezing in abject horror.

“Hello,” DCI John Smith said calmly, affixing her with an expression that managed to be both bemused _and_ smug, and he leaned forward and put his elbows on the table, the picture of casual composure. “Impossible Girl.” 

“How the fuck-” 

“Oh, please. You think Jack Robertson usually lets plebs know where he likes to dine? You think men like that really want the unwashed masses to know where they enjoy spending time, so that they can be overrun by protesters and fans and women with low morals?” 

“There’s a human being with low — nay, non-existent — morals in this building tonight, and it isn’t me.” 

“Oh, I know he’s no angel. But he hasn’t broken any laws — that we have any proof of, anyway — and he was an awfully good sport in setting you up like this.” 

“Hang on, you _planned_ this?”

“Well, it was my superior’s idea, but I have to admit to being keen to get involved, yes.” 

Clara tried to stand, only for DCI Smith’s hand to dart out and settle over hers, his fingers encircling her wrist in a casual display of power. “I wouldn’t try to leave. We have the place surrounded.” 

“I…” Clara could feel her breathing starting to accelerate as panic settled over her. “What do you want?”

“To talk. And then to bring you in.” 

“But…” she swallowed thickly, trying to work out an escape route. “You can’t… I’m not…” 

“Not what?” 

“Not prepared,” she thought suddenly of Bonnie, sat up until midnight, waiting for her to come home. Bonnie, growing increasingly panicked, and then hearing the news. Bonnie, falling apart, alone and scared. She sank back into her seat, against her better judgement, and DCI Smith let go of her. “I’m not…” 

“Criminals don’t get to prepare for these things. That isn’t how their lives work… hell, isn’t how _your_ life works.”

“But…” she reached for her water glass and took a shaky gulp. She would play the game — for now at least. “What… what do you even want to know?”

“I want to know which twin you are. I want to know why you’re doing this. And I want to know why you got involved with Danny.”

“Do I have to answer all of those?” Clara put her glass down, cutting a sliver of meat off her steak and popping it in her mouth. If the worst came to the worst and DCI Smith _did_ end up arresting her, it might be a long while before she tasted steak again, especially of the Michelin-star variety.

“Ideally, yes.” 

“And if I don’t want to answer your questions?” 

“Then this friendly little chat might become much less friendly, and might not be accompanied by food and wine.” 

“What does that matter to you? You aren’t eating. Or drinking.”

“I would very much love to sample the cuisine, and the wine, actually, but I strongly suspect there’s something in Mr Robertson’s drink.” 

Clara narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes, perhaps.” 

“Shame. I’ll stick to the food then,” DCI Smith reached across to the neighbouring table for a knife and fork, then cut into the beef wellington Robertson had been enjoying minutes earlier. The entire thing was so ridiculous that Clara began to laugh, as the DCI sat opposite her blinked in consternation. “What?” he asked, fork halfway to his mouth. “What’s funny?”

“You are.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“You’ve just… I don’t know… gate-crashed my date, and now you’re even eating his dinner. What next? You’re going to go to the toilet and come back in his clothes?” 

“I’m supposed to be the one asking questions here,” he tasted his first mouthful, and made an unreadable face. 

“So, ask them. How’s the food, though?” 

“Delicious,” he said without conviction. “So, question one. Which twin are you?” 

“Bonnie,” she said at once, watching his face light up and then adding: “Or Clara.”

“Don’t play games with me.”

“Says the detective chief inspector sat opposite me having set up a sting in a Michelin-starred restaurant. Admit it, you just wanted to try the food. Which, by the way, I know you’re not enjoying. I’ve never seen anyone look that miserable while eating beef wellington before.”

“Hilarious,” he deadpanned. “You know, you’re much less catty this time.” 

“I’m humouring you,” she said with a shrug. “It tends to disconcert people.” 

“Which one are you?” 

“Clara,” she said with a smirk. “Or Bonnie.” 

“God, you’re fucking irritating.” 

“God, you shouldn’t be swearing on duty.”

“God, I’ll do whatever the fuck I like,” he shoved another forkful of beef wellington into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Tell me about Danny.” 

“No.” 

“Go on.” 

“Go fuck yourself.” 

“You know, that was very rude.”

“Says the man talking with his mouth full.” 

“Says the woman not eating,” he shot back, and Clara sighed, taking another miniscule bite of her steak and then dropping her gaze to her lap. 

“I’m not going to tell you, you know?” she told him, keeping her eyes downcast. It would be wrong to tell John anything about Danny, and it was even more wrong to even entertain the notion of telling him in a bid to save her own skin. And yet, part of her was considering it. Part of her was screaming at her to do it — consequences be damned. “I can’t.” 

“Why?” 

“Because it would dishonour him.”

“Haven’t you done that anyway?” 

She felt anger twist in the pit of her stomach as she snapped her head up to scowl at him. “How _dare_ you?” 

“Because I need to know.” 

“Fuck you,” Clara reached for her wine and took a long sip, glaring all the while she did so. “Fuck you, and fuck your investigation.” 

“Which one are you?” 

“Fuck off.” 

DCI Smith shrugged, focusing on his meal, and Clara set her jaw as she braced herself for another question. 

“Which one are you?” 

A sense of dizziness was beginning to creep over her, and she clenched her fists at her sides in a bid to keep her composure. She couldn’t allow panic to overwhelm her; she couldn’t allow herself to become complacent and make mistakes. 

“Not telling you,” she mumbled, pouting like a child. “Not ever telling you.” 

“Tell me about Danny.” 

Her head was starting to pound with the stress of it all.

“No,” she said, finding her words thick and slurred. “No, I…”

The penny didn’t so much as drop as float downwards, foggy as her brain was.   

“You…” she tried to scowl at DCI Smith, finding it took considerable effort to focus on his face. “You… _you_. You switched…”

“The wine glasses? Yes, I did. Couldn’t have you drugging a police officer, could I?” 

“You’re a piece of shit.” 

“So charming, aren’t you?” 

“Fuc’off.” 

“Which one are you?” 

“Go t’hell.”

“Why do you do it?” he asked, and the quiet calmness of the question took her by surprise. She looked up at him and met his gaze for the first time, feeling her eyes fill with tears. 

“Because it’s like… like an addiction,” she shrugged, finding the words tumbling from her mouth as the drug left her powerless to stop them. “And just… I needed the money; I couldn’t ’ford… couldn’t pay for things, couldn’t even buy food… so it was just a useful way at first… just going on dates, just getting something to eat. And then one went all fuzzy and he went ’sleep, so I took some money out his wallet and it just… it just snow… snowb… went from there.” 

“When did it become more?”

“He… I don’t remember his name…” she closed her eyes as the memories washed over her, remembering the terror she had felt that fateful night. “He wasn’t as out of it as I thought… he tried… he pinned me down and he… he…” 

“I’m s-” 

“He was trying to strangle me and so I hit him with… something, I don’t know what, just something I could reach, and then I ran and I ran and I ran.” 

“So, you started tying them up?” 

“Had to, had to be safe… had to go home safe. I promised; I promised, DCI Smith; I promised.”

“Promised who?”

“My _sister_. I promised her I’d come home to her safe.” 

“And so you started drugging people, too?” 

“What would you have done?”

“Not what you did.”

“Fuck off. Sanctimon’ous prick.” 

“Where does Danny come into it all?” DCI Smith asked, and Clara looked over at him with as much hatred she could muster. 

“Danny’s just… don’.” 

“Don’t what?” 

“Just… don’ bring him into this.”

“I could go to my superior,” John breathed. “I could go to her with everything I know; everything he covered up. I could blow apart his reputation as easily as sending her a text message right this second.” 

“Fu-” 

“Or you could come down to the station with me, quietly, and this could all be over.” 

Clara couldn’t help it. She began to cry, quietly and desperately, as she wrapped her arms around herself and rocked backwards and forwards in an attempt to glean some small degree of comfort. She knew that for all his seeming generosity, DCI Smith would undoubtedly take the opportunity to arrest her either way — and to destroy Danny’s reputation too, regardless of any assertions to the contrary. She would be arrested, and she would lose more than just her liberty — she’d lose her family, and the people she loved. She’d always known it would come to this, but she hadn’t ever imagined it being _like_ this — she’d wanted it to be on her own terms, not someone else’s.

The room began to spin as she continued to sob, her breathing growing increasingly laboured, and it took her a moment to realise that DCI Smith was crouched in front of her, surveying her with a look of concern that seemed entirely hypocritical. 

“Which one are you?” he asked urgently, and as her mouth struggled to form a retort, her consciousness finally slipped away and everything went dark.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faced with an unconscious Impossible Girl, John has to make an impossible choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year everyone!

As the Impossible Girl slumped forwards, John found himself reaching out for her instinctively. She might be a criminal, but his intrinsic programming stopped him from letting anyone fall face-first onto the floor, even if it was plushly carpeted and probably more comfortable to land on than his own bargain-basement bed. Wrapping his hands around her shoulders in an attempt at keeping her somewhat vertical, he found himself able to examine her up close for the first time, unfettered by her attitude or her barbed words driving him and his attention away. With her eyes closed and her consciousness elsewhere, she was almost… well, pretty, he supposed, if you liked that sort of thing in a woman. Her nose was slightly upturned at the end and her eyelashes rested, thick and dark, against the smooth alabaster skin of her skin, fluttering occasionally as she fought against the drug that was now coursing through her system. He hadn’t expected it to take effect quite so rapidly nor so absolutely, but then it occurred to him that she had probably prepared a dose befitting a six-foot adult man; such a dose would undoubtedly be too strong for someone of her petite stature.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself as she sagged against him, her weight and the awkward position starting to make his arms ache in protest. He had no idea of the drug she used. What if it was lethal in such a large dose? Could he be blamed for his own sleight-of-hand and his deception of her if it went awry? Could he be held accountable if she died thanks to her own tricks? He didn’t even know if Kate would be angry; not if it meant one less criminal on London’s streets. He tried to think coldly and clinically about it, trying to be detached, but then the Impossible Girl let out a small, involuntary groan and he forced himself to look back at her face. She looked… delicate. Impossibly small, impossibly delicate, and impossibly vulnerable. He couldn’t drag her into the station like this — he couldn’t drag her _anywhere_ like this. The repulsion and shame that he felt about arresting someone unable to even listen to their rights being read to them was becoming overwhelming, and he shifted, moving the unconscious woman so that she was more comfortably supported in his arms, her head almost cradled against his chest.

He looked down at her for a long moment, weighing up his options. He could call Kate, and have the Impossible Girl driven away now, prone and alone in the back of a police car. He could carry her into the station himself and place her in a cell. Or…

“ _Mmf_ ,” she mumbled, regaining a degree of semi-consciousness long enough to paw at his chest with a feeble hand, eyes flickering as she did so. “John…”

Something about her use of his name and the pitiful way that she mewed it was enough to remind him of another woman, and another time, of far-removed places and other-worldly situations. There had been other decisions that had needed to be made — decisions about painkillers and hot drinks and blankets; decisions about novels and types of tissues and whether or not the central heating could be cranked any higher. There had been soft words and embraces and jokes. Things he would never share with a woman again, and certainly not with this one. 

But, still. It was enough to make him ponder.

Enough to make him realise that despite his reputation and despite his desire for winning favour among his new colleagues, his desire to be a good man was a more important concern.

He ensured that he could keep a safe hold on the Impossible Girl, then reached into his pocket for his phone and dialled Kate’s number. 

“John?” she asked, her tone positively jubilant at the prospect of securing the arrest of one of London’s most wanted. “Have you got her?” 

He took a deep breath, then said, as steadily as he was able: “No,” he sighed for dramatic impact, trying to force himself to sound irked. “She gave me the slip. Have you got eyes on her?” 

“What?!” Kate’s tone changed at once, and he could all but see the look of fury on her face. “How could she have given you the slip? We evacuated the whole floor! What the hell are you playing at?” 

“Kate, _have you got eyes on_?” 

“No, we bloody haven’t! That devious little bitch… when I finally get hold of her… we’ll send a team to watch her house, then nick her when she gets in.”

“She won’t head home,” John said with pragmatism. “She isn’t that stupid. She mentioned something about Robertson’s hotel; might want to go and-”

“Say no more,” Kate said grimly, rising to the bait with surprising ease. “We’ll make our way there now.” 

Before he could speak again, she had ended the call, and he let out a shuddering breath, looking back down at the drugged woman in his arms and cursing himself for his own soft-heartedness.

“You’d better bloody appreciate this,” he told her. “It’s only my job on the line. Nothing important, you know. Nothing major.” 

He waited until he heard the blare of sirens from outside, then got to his feet, looking down at the tiny woman before him. He could carry her as far as his vehicle, couldn’t he? Not a problem. She could only be about five foot one, and he might not be in the first flush of youth, but he could manage to carry a small larcenist five hundred metres, no problem. 

Lifting her into his arms, he had to admit to himself that he was wrong. She was heavier than she looked, and, due to her inert state, she was less than able to work with him to facilitate ease of movement. She couldn’t hold onto him or balance her own weight appropriately, so he was forced to juggle her as he made his way out of the building, setting her down in the passenger seat of his car and buckling her in with care. As he circled round to the driver’s side and clambered in, he looked over at her and sighed. 

“I’ve lost my bloody mind,” John told her, feeling a tad foolish and hoping to god that this wasn’t all some elaborate ruse to get him fired. “I’ve actually lost my bloody mind.”

 

* * *

 

Regaining consciousness again was a slow, painful experience. Clara’s mouth was dry and tasted unpleasantly of wine and something she strongly suspected might be sick, and her head pounded with every breath she drew. Why did her head hurt? She was sure there was a good reason, only-

“Shit,” she yelped, as realisation struck her like a freight train and she sat bolt upright in bed, trying to remember how to breathe. There had been a restaurant, and a mark, and then DCI Smith, and… _oh, god_ , she shouldn’t have moved so quickly. The room was spinning around her, and more pressingly — she wasn’t alone. “Ow.” 

“Yes, _ow_. I should think you bloody well would feel ‘ _ow_ ,’” Bonnie said from her perch at the end of the bed. “How on earth could you be so stupid?”

“Bon…” Clara groaned, reassuming her previous horizontal position and pulling a pillow over her face. She was not in the mood to deal with her twin being sanctimonious and smug, not after the events of the previous evening. “Bon, not now.”

“Yes, now!” The pillow was ripped away from her, and, before Clara could reach for the duvet and burrow under that, that was yanked away, too. She yelped at the tepid spring air, curling up as best as she could in a bid to seek warmth. “How could you let DCI Smith switch your glasses? How could you not notice?”

“I was somewhat distracted,” Clara mumbled, settling for laying her arm over her eyes as she tried to make the room stop swirling. “He… brought stuff up.” 

“What sort of stuff justifies not noticing that?” 

“He brought Danny up, if you must know.”

“Oh,” Bonnie’s tone changed in an instant. “I… sorry.” 

“What actually happened last night?” Clara asked, both needing to hear and yet dreading the answer. “I don’t remember much after… well, you know. Blacking out.” 

“There was a knock at the door. You’re bloody lucky I answered, really, because if Martha or Amy or, god forbid, Rory, had gone to answer it, you’d really have been in trouble — although I’m sure your DCI Smith would have had the good sense to lie to them about who he really was.” 

“He’s not my anything.” 

“He brought you home instead of arresting your bitchy arse on the spot. That kind of indicates he’s your _something_.” 

“You make that sound so sordid.” 

“Well, isn’t it?” Bonnie asked in an acerbic tone. “Isn’t he going to be the next Danny?” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Fuck _you_ ,” Bonnie shot back at once. “I think you’ll find I was telling a story. Well. Explaining, at any rate.”

“Go on, then.” 

“So, he knocked on the door and presented me with your unconscious, miserable, useless behind, totally out of it, slurring something about a nee-naw man. You’re _exceptionally lucky_ I didn’t use your name, you daft cow.” 

“Why would you have done that? Now who’s the stupid one?”

“Because my immediate instinct to seeing my wombmate in a state is to use her name, idiot. Gets your attention, doesn’t it? Anyway, you’re missing the point. I didn’t.”

“Right. Well. Ta.”

“So, I was going to carry you upstairs but he seemed to think I wouldn’t be able to manage — like I haven’t done it before — and insisted on bringing you up here, then he insisted on telling me to sit with you so you didn’t choke on your own sick or anything. Then you _were_ sick, and while I was dealing with that, he took his leave.”

“He didn’t…” Clara swallowed thickly, glancing around her room nervously. “He didn’t see anything with my name on, did he?” 

“No, of course not.”

“Well… still, you should’ve got him to put me in _your_ room!” 

“What, so I could get arrested today now that ‘I’ have ostensibly sobered up? No, thanks.”

“You know that isn’t what I meant.”

“Do I?”

“Look, was he alone in here? Did he poke about, or touch anything?” 

“Why would he have done?” 

“Because he’s a police officer!” Clara felt like shaking her sister for her slowness. “Because he’s looking for something to identify me, so he can drag me in and stick me in prison for a really long time!” 

“I don’t know if he did or not,” Bonnie rolled her eyes. “I was more concerned with clearing up your sick. You owe me for that, by the way; it was disgusting and I thought we were past the vomiting-on-carpets stage. Now, do you want anything? Coffee? Bacon sandwich? Glass of water? A slap?”

“Coffee, please,” Clara struggled into a sitting position, feeling a sudden rush of gratitude towards her twin. “Thanks. For the carpet, and for looking after me, and for… well, being you.”

“You’re welcome. Idiot.” 

“Are you going to keep calling me that?” 

“Oh, absolutely,” Bonnie grinned. “Stay there, OK? Back in a moment.” 

Clara hummed an assertion as Bonnie left the room, casting an eye around herself. There was last night’s discarded dress draped over the end of the bed, and her shoes were set lopsidedly beside her wardrobe in a manner that was entirely at odds with her sense of order. There was a damp patch on the carpet beside her bedside table, and she wrinkled her nose at the lingering acidic smell that served as evidence of the previous evening’s loss of bodily control. 

Had DCI Smith really brought her home? The move was entirely uncharacteristic of him, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it. Why hadn’t he arrested her? Why hadn’t he tried to work out which of them was which? Why wasn’t she regaining consciousness in a cell? 

Perhaps she had him all wrong; perhaps he was more like Danny in terms of compassion and commitment to others than she had anticipated. Or perhaps he’d just been trying to be a gentleman, in that curious old-fashioned way that men of a certain age liked to be. She supposed she ought to be grateful, but there was a lingering sense of uncertainty about his apparent willingness to hand her over into her sister’s protective custody without attempting to glean any more information that made her wholly uneasy.

As her gaze swept around the room, she froze, her heart beginning to pound as she struggled to comprehend what she was seeing. As Bonnie stepped back inside bearing two mugs of coffee, it was all Clara could do to ask: “Did you borrow my photo with Mum? The one from my bookcase?” 

“No,” Bonnie frowned. “Why?” 

“Because,” Clara breathed. “It’s gone. And I’m willing to hazard a guess as to where it is now.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara had always thought of Coal Hill as her safe place. In one awful hour, everything is about to change.

This was, even by DCI Smith’s standards, a new low. That was the thought currently fuelling Clara’s furious pacing back and forth over her bedroom carpet, the dull throbbing in her head from the previous night now diminishing as she focused her attention on the problem at hand. Taking a photograph of a suspect with their dead mother was the sort of underhanded tactic she should have expected from him, and yet it still hurt. The fact that he would stoop low enough to even so much as contemplate stealing something of such sentimental value was both a revelation and an anti-climax; proving her suspicion, once and for all, that he was less than half the man Danny had been. Danny would never have done such a thing, not even to the most heinous of criminals. Danny had been many things, but petty thievery and malicious tactics were not among them. DCI Smith might have replaced him on paper, but in reality the two men had little in common other than their gender and their profession.

She knew what DCI Smith wanted her to do now, of course. His intention was to force her to sneak into the police station to reclaim her property, and then to stick her in handcuffs and march her into a cell with a crow of triumph. She wouldn’t allow that to happen — _couldn’t_ allow it to, not when she had so much to remain at liberty for. No, she wouldn’t allow herself to become ensnared like that, or to become compromised and driven by maudlin sentimentality. It was just a photograph, she tried to tell herself. Just a photograph, and she had hundreds of others. 

Yet, deep down, she knew it wasn’t about the photograph itself. It was about the principle of the theft, and the morals — or lack thereof — involved in stealing an item imbued with such strong sentimental value. He had to know about her mother — he couldn’t have taken a chance and aimed for the photo without prior knowledge of all that it represented. Something about that made her detest him all the more; knowing that he would target something so precious to her for the simple sake of scoring points by bringing her in. That, and the fact he had any knowledge of her mother — a woman, in Clara’s eyes, entirely without fault, and undeserving of so much as being on the radar of the police.

“You know,” Bonnie pointed out, when Clara voiced her loathing for the man aloud. “He _did_ bring you home.”

Something about her sister’s blind refusal to accept criticism of DCI Smith following his seemingly noble actions irked her all the more. Yes, he had shown her kindness by bringing her home and by not arresting her while she was unconscious. No, she didn’t understand his motives for doing so. Yes, she supposed it had been an honourable thing to do. No, that did not negate that he had stolen from her.

She tried, over the following days, to tell herself that she had many photos of her mother; that the one he had taken from her was not unique, and could be replaced by any of a multitude of similar shots. She tried to tell herself that she could purchase a replacement frame and reinstate her mother in pride of place in her bedroom… and yet something about the idea seemed jarring. Why would she go to such lengths to do so, when DCI Smith could simply return the object in question? She could bide her time and wait for the opportunity to present itself, and, when it would, she would reclaim what was rightly hers.

It was only a matter of time, she assured herself. It was just about watching and waiting.

 

* * *

 

Clara had known, when entering the teaching profession, that sometimes she would be called upon to teach outside of her chosen subject field. She covered the odd French or History lesson, occasionally supervised a class of under-16s playing netball, and from time to time managed the rare rudimentary science experiment. She didn’t mind; it gave her the chance to try something new and get involved with things she could never hope to replicate in her English lessons — not unless she wanted to run the very real risk of countless copies of the classics literally going up in smoke.

One subject, however, that she truly loathed covering was PSHE. Personal, Social and Health Education was a mixed bag of odds and ends intended to teach teenagers how to be… well, she wasn’t sure, but she suspected it was something roughly approximating well-adjusted, sensible adults. There were sessions on sex education, invariably filled with tittering and red-faced young people; sessions about the dangers of binge drinking that Clara strongly suspected were falling on deaf ears; classes on abstaining from drugs; and then… this. A chat with a friendly police officer from a local station about the importance of remaining law-abiding.

 _Bit of a lost cause on some of this lot,_ she thought to herself sourly, cursing the teenagers sat in front of her and cursing her colleague for phoning in sick that morning. She had attended these sessions before, and half the time, the students just ended up pumping the hapless police officer for horror stories. Educational value: approximately nought.

Besides the boredom, the thought of spending an hour sat in a room with an agent of the force working to arrest her was stomach-churning, even at the best of times, and, as the knock came at the classroom door, she felt her heart stop.

“Come in!” she called, in as level a voice as she could manage, and a second later the door swung inwards and Mr Armitage, the ebullient deputy headteacher, stepped over the threshold. 

“Miss Oswald,” he said brightly, clapping his hands and affixing them with a warm grin. “Class 10A. We have a real treat for you today. A bona fide-” 

The rest of his words faded into insignificance as a figure entered the room behind him, locking eyes with Clara and freezing.

“-DCI Smith has been working for the police for a number of years, and he’s here to talk to you about his job.”

 How could it be him? This was the kind of assignment they sent naïve, newly joined PCs out to cover, not senior DCIs. Had he done this on purpose? Was this supposed to be some kind of trap for her? Was his intention to try and work out which twin was which? She could feel her chest growing increasingly tight with each passing second, but she forced herself to get to her feet and flash him a winning smile, determined to give nothing away.

“I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Miss Oswald,” Mr Armitage said jovially, failing to notice the sudden tension between the two other adults in the room. “10A, don’t waste this opportunity to learn about the Metropolitan Police and what they do, as well as the career opportunities it can offer you.” 

“I thought this was the, ah…” Clara piped up, unsure how to characterise the usual sessions that the students received yearly. “Usual sort of set-up?” 

Mr Armitage frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. “No, DCI Smith is here to speak to the students about careers. Didn’t you get my email?”

Clara shook her head tightly, forcing a little laugh, as though amused by her own ignorance. “Well, this sounds much more interesting than the annual doom and gloom, doesn’t it, class?”

The assembled students blinked up at her, entirely bemused by her forced upbeat attitude. She was not their usual teacher, and their contempt for her was barely concealed. 

“I don’t know,” DCI Smith said suddenly, affixing her with a wolf-like smile. “I’m sure I could still manage some doom and gloom.” 

“Try not to scare them,” Mr Armitage warned, giving a silly, lopsided grin and wagging a finger in a chastising manner. “Or you’ll be footing the bill for group counselling.” 

“Duly noted,” DCI Smith said, his expression becoming contrite in an instant, and Clara fought the urge to flee. “Now, students. Who wants to hear the story of the Impossible Girl?”

 

* * *

 

It was agony. The entire hour was torturous as Clara sat and listened to him speak, praying to god that he wouldn’t be foolish enough to reveal anything that might spark a witch-hunt against her and her sister. She fought to keep her expression neutral and her breathing even, her hands folded in her lap, picking at her cuticles until they stung as he outlined first her case and then those of others, before settling in to answer questions from curious teenagers. By the time the talk was over, her hands were shaking and her mouth was dry, but she got to her feet mechanically and led a round of applause, offering some strangled words of thanks.

“Could you possibly show me out?” DCI Smith asked, giving her the kind of smile that might have been charming had his intentions not been painfully clear. “It was such a maze on the way in, I don’t fancy getting lost in here.”

“Urm,” she cast a wary glance at her students, knowing she couldn’t evade this responsibility without seeming impolite or strange. “Sure. April, you’re in charge.” 

Dark-haired April MacLean gave a serious little nod, turning and facing her classmates with a distinctively teacher-like air. Satisfied the assembled teenagers were unlikely to run riot under April’s watchful eye, Clara stepped out of the classroom, tensing herself in silent readiness for… well, anything. 

“That went well,” he said pleasantly, as they set off down the corridors towards the school office. “They seemed very receptive to what I was saying.”

“Mm,” she hummed, fighting to keep from panicking. “Yeah.” 

“I really think I made an impact.” 

“Yeah.” 

“And I’d like to think-” he seized her by the wrist and pulled her into an empty classroom before she could so much as scream. His hand clamped over her mouth as he backed her against a wall inside, his arm settling across her chest to keep her from twisting away from him and fleeing. “-that you could help me make an impact back at work, too. Which one are you?” 

He removed his hand and she scowled at him, wondering if she could lift her knee high enough in her skirt to knee him in the crotch. 

“You know which one I am.” 

“But are you _her_?” 

“Like I’m going to tell _you_.” 

He stared at her for a moment, his breath coming in short, adrenaline-fuelled pants as he looked her up and down, his mind visibly ticking over. Without warning, his free hand settled on her waist — an odd gesture of intimacy, given the circumstances, and one that made her feel distinctly uneasy. 

“What…” she began, as he slipped his hand around to her hip, then trailed downwards to her thigh. His touch ignited a panic in her that she couldn’t quell, her heart rate accelerating painfully as his fingers traced around to the back of her leg. She realised then what he was searching for, and as his fingertips settled over the raised, angry scar from weeks earlier, she let out a small sob of resignation. 

“Clara,” he whispered softly, meeting her gaze and giving her a warm little smile, as though he hadn’t just gained the information he needed to destroy her. “Hello, Impossible Girl.” 

There was only one thing she could think of to do. 

She lunged forwards and kissed him, the shock of it driving him back a step as their lips crashed together. Automatically, his arm left her chest and she pulled free from his grasp and slipped out into the corridor, trying to compose herself as she walked as fast as she could back in the direction of her classroom. She was shaking, and tears were spilling down her cheeks, but she knew she needed the safety that came from being surrounded by thirty teenagers — or, as she saw it — thirty witnesses.

“Fuck,” she whispered to herself, clenching her fists until her nails bit into her palm. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John seeks out an old enemy to try and gain some insight into the Impossible Girl.

“John… are you sure about this?”

“Absolutely,” John surveyed the man sat across from him with a weary look, feeling less than up to having an argument about the matter. Sean Carter had been a fixture in his life for the last eleven years, and, while John was unsurprised by his old acquaintance’s confusion, he desperately needed this favour to be granted — ideally with minimal questioning. “I need to do this.”

“But she…”

“I know what she did, Sean,” John snapped, then sighed and added in an apologetic tone: “I was there, remember?”

“Sorry,” Sean dropped his gaze, visibly uncomfortable. “I just… why now? Why not after we brought her in?” 

“Because it wasn’t the right time then.” 

“And it is now?” 

“Something like that, yeah,” John didn’t want to explain himself, and he wasn’t going to allow Sean to persuade him to do so. “Can I see her, or not?” 

There was a long, terse pause, as the two men stared each other down. John could feel his heart thudding uncomfortably in his chest as Sean took stock of the set of his jaw and the steel in his eyes, and then — after what felt like an eternity — nodded. 

“Go and wait downstairs — Room 12. I’ll have her brought through to you.” 

“Thanks, Sean,” John mumbled, feeling a sudden lurching sensation as the magnitude of what he was about to do hit him. “I owe you for this.” 

“Just don’t…” Sean hesitated. “Just don’t do anything stupid, alright?” 

“Like what?” 

“You know what she’s like, John. Don’t let her bait you into anything.” 

“I won’t.” 

“Well then. Good,” Sean got to his feet, reaching for a button on his desk and pressing it before speaking into a discreet microphone. “Can I get an officer in my office immediately? Matter pertaining to Prisoner 231163 has arisen.” 

John nodded once at him in thanks before stepping out of the office and heading downstairs towards the bleak, grey rooms that were a staple of prisons across the nation. As he approached Room 12 and stepped inside, the temperature seemed to drop several degrees, although whether this was his imagination or not, he could not discern. Looking around, he did a mental risk assessment of the space, trying to work out what — as it was not an “if any” — danger the contents could pose. It was the sort of room typically used by officers and lawyers meeting with suspects and clients, and it was stripped back to basics — a table, bolted to the floor, with a bar on the top and a panic button affixed to one side; two chairs, each screwed in place; a number of jarringly bright posters advertising legal aid and different law firms plastered the walls; and there was a camera in one corner of the room, a red light beside the lens blinking to indicate it was recording. As he stared at it, he arched an eyebrow, and, in accordance with his wishes, the light went out. 

Taking a seat, he tried to control his breathing, knowing he couldn’t show any perceived weakness in front of the person he was here to see. Splaying and curling his fingers in time with his inhales and exhales, he had just managed to calm himself when there was the sound of three sets of footsteps in the corridor, and the door was opened. 

Two guards led Melissa Saxon inside, and, as she took in the sight of him, her eyes lit up with genuine delight. Or, at the very least, something vaguely approximating it — it was difficult to tell with her what was genuine and what was false. As he’d found to his cost. 

“John Smith,” she said warmly, as though she were not dressed in a monochrome uniform and her hands were not shackled together. “My, to what pleasure do I owe this?” 

“Shut up,” one of the guards said roughly, pushing her into the chair opposite John and cuffing her wrists to the bar on the table. “Don’t try anything, or you know what’ll happen.” 

Ignoring them completely, she reached for John at once, looking sadly down at her wrists as the cuffs forced her to keep her distance. 

“John?” she asked, her voice small and vulnerable-sounding. “John… what…” 

“Be careful,” the taller of the two guards warned him. “Any funny business at all, you press that button. We’ll be right outside.” 

He nodded an assertion and watched in silence as they filed out of the room, the door slamming shut behind them. 

“Just the two of us,” the woman opposite him said quietly, looking up at him through her hair and smiling coyly. “Just you and me, alone.” 

“Stop it,” he said sharply. “Stop acting like this is some kind of date, Missy. It isn’t.” 

“Oh, still using that name, are we? They call me Melissa in here. It’s terribly boring; very not-me.” 

John cursed himself for slipping up and using the informal nickname she so preferred. “It’s your name.”

‘No, it’s not. My name is Missy. We’ve discussed this.”

“I’m not going to argue with you about this.” 

“So, why _are_ you here?” she tilted her head to the side, affixing him with a curious look that made him feel distinctly prey-like. “This can’t be a social call, because it’s been eleven years and I’ve been bored absolutely shitless. Not so much as a letter. Terribly rude, really. I didn’t think our little love affair was quite that forgettable. Didn’t you get my notes?”

“What notes?” 

“The notes I wrote you. The guards said they’d deliver them — well, one of them did. Pretty little thing she was. Totally under my spell. They reassigned her after they found her naked in my cell, but really, could I help it? She was a dear little angel, just begging to be corrupted. It’s not my fault she was drawn in.”

“Seducing your guards now, are we?”

“Oh, the current one is quite the challenge. She says she doesn’t like ladies, but they all say that, don’t they? The last two did, but I still had them-”

“Missy.”

She all but purred with joy at the use of her name, and he swore under his breath, angry to have slipped up again.

“Say it again,” she murmured softly. “Say my name again.”

“I…” he swallowed thickly, trying to ignore the way her pupils had dilated. She could do this — not just to him, but to anyone. It was some kind of talent she had — the ability to draw people in, irresistibly so, and to use them for her own ends. It had worked to devastating effect twelve years ago, and he fought the urge to give in to it now. But then, he supposed, perhaps he could give in a little, in exchange for her giving him something in return. “I’ll use it, alright? I’ll use it, to make you happy.” 

“Thank you,” she whispered, biting her lip with something that was supposed to be akin to child-like innocence, but was accompanied by a look of desire that was so intense that the sheer indecency of the juxtaposition made him shudder. “John, thank you.” 

“Stop it,” he told her, his tone harsher than before. “Stop it, now.” 

“Stop what?” she asked, leaning forward and widening her eyes at him. “I’m not doing anything.” 

“Stop, or I’ll leave.” 

The threat had the desired effect. She blinked hard, as though she had been slapped, then sat back in her chair and adopted a hard stare. “Fine.” 

“I will use your name, and you will not use… whatever that is. That’s the deal.”

“I don’t make deals with backstabbers.” 

“Well, I don’t make deals with murderers, and yet here we are.” 

There was a beat of silence, and then — of all things — she laughed. “Oh, John. I’ve missed you.” 

“Missy, I need to ask you something.” 

“Now, now. Let’s not skip the pleasantries. How have you been?” 

“Urm,” he paused, unsure how much he could and should tell her. Could he offer the edited highlights? Would that be too much? “I’ve moved down south.” 

“Again?” 

“Yes, again.” 

“I thought you swore…” 

“I did,” he said with resignation, running a hand through his hair. “I was invited back. Big case.” 

“And you’re here about it, I’m guessing.” 

“Correct.” 

“Does she remind you of me?” she purred, and he hated her for how well she was able to read him. “Is that what it is? Is she beautiful and terrifying and dangerous?” 

“I…” he couldn’t find the words to counter hers, and his silence was enough to make his agreement complicit.

“Oh,” Missy’s tone was enthralled and amazed and just _slightly_ jealous — enough to remind him how dangerous she could be. “Have you fucked her yet?” 

“Missy!” 

“Well, have you?” she smirked, then added: “Was it like fucking me?” 

“I-” 

“Did she let you do bad things to her? Did she do bad things to you? I know how much it turns you on to-”

“Missy, stop it,” John swallowed uncomfortably, knowing that losing his temper would only goad her into further taunting. “I haven’t, no. My predecessor did, but I’m not… I’m really not that sort of officer.” 

“You’re that sort of man, though,” Missy’s smirk changed, becoming more malicious. “I know how much you like women who come with a past. River. Me. This mysterious woman.” 

“Missy…” 

“And I know how much you like a woman who’s spent time impaled on another man’s-” 

“If you don’t stop talking,” John said in a low undertone, his expression hardening and his mood turning sour, “I am going to press this panic button and tell them you attacked me, and get you thrown in solitary.”

“Where do you think I’ve _been_ , dearie?” she arched an eyebrow. “It was so noisy otherwise. And it was much harder to fuck the dear little guards when there was another woman in my cell getting all jealous that she wasn’t allowed a turn.” 

"You really are…”

“A piece of work? I know. And I know that you think the same about this new woman. I bet I can guess who it is, you know.”

John scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “I bet you can’t.” 

“Is it the Impossible Girl?” 

His mouth dropped open. “How the _hell_ …”

“Please. Just your sort of case. Just your sort of woman. You should fuck her, when you catch her. Might get the whole case thrown out, but it’d be worth it. When was the last time you got laid, John?” 

“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.”

“Has it been years? Would you like me to remind you what it’s like? They think the cuffs are enough to stop you from doing anything, but they’re wrong.” 

“Missy, stop.” 

“Actually, I’m glad you’ve got a new bit of skirt,” Missy’s eyes were hard and cold. “Gives _you_ something to chase and _me_ something to think about killing when I get out.” 

“You’re never getting out.” 

“Oh, I disagree. Tell me, is she a killer, John? We could fight it out to the death.” 

“She might become one. One day.” 

“Only might? Well, that’s no fun. I know how much it turns you on; fucking a killer.” 

“I…” John had wanted to avoid asking her directly; had wanted to avoid so much as mentioning the name. But something about Missy always led to him abandoning his resolve, and so he blurted: “Why did you kill River?” 

“Because she was mean to you,” Missy pouted. “And I wanted you to be happy.” 

“So you killed her?” 

“Yes, so you could be with me,” Missy lit up, genuinely child-like now. “And we could be happy together. And we were, weren’t we? Until things got messy?” 

“No, Missy,” John said wearily, getting to his feet. He had wanted answers; he had wanted something empirical. He had wanted some kind of clue as to how the minds of the two women worked, and he hadn’t got it. “It was based on lies. All of it.”

“Where are you…” 

“To catch a thief,” he told her. “Before she becomes a killer.” 

“Think of me,” Missy barbed. “When you’re with her… think of me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have written this immediately after watching the Sherlock episode with his insane sister, so quite a lot of Missy's personality in this was influenced by that, namely the ability to corrupt people - although canonically the Master/Missy is a hypnotist, so take from that what you will.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Clara find themselves trapped in limbo.

There was something about discovering precisely which twin was the guilty party in the case of the Impossible Girl that seemed impossibly anticlimactic to John. He had expected the moment to come with an epiphany of what he should do next — no, he _knew_ what he should do next, but for some reason… he hadn’t — and the sense that everything was falling into place. Only it wasn’t; he was more confused about things than ever, and that was driven largely by Clara’s actions in the classroom when he’d confronted her in her place of work.

It felt strange to finally have a name to put to the woman who had been haunting his nightmares for weeks. His suspicions had been wrong — his hunch that it was _Bonnie_ that he was seeking to arrest had come to naught, and instead he had been blindsided by an English teacher, of all people. She’d seemed… different in her other life. Quiet. Shy. Composed, at least a modicum — he’d been told that the students in her care weren’t her usual class, but she’d kept control of them with ease, despite how panicked she must have felt at the sight of him. For that, if nothing else, he couldn’t help but feel a level of respect for her. She hadn’t fled from him when he’d made his entrance. She hadn’t tried to make her excuses and bolt for the door. She’d calmly carried on with her job, regardless of the fact that she must have been screaming with terror internally, desperate to flee from the threat he posed.

He supposed he should feel bad for frightening her like that, but the opportunity had presented itself and he’d taken it. He’d told Kate he was off to speak to students, but nothing more — she had little to no patience for his fixation on the Impossible Girl, especially after their failed sting, and so he’d simply… well, gone rogue, for want of a better phrase. He’d made a breakthrough thanks to his own initiative, and now it was down to him to act on the new information he’d acquired.

And yet… he wasn’t acting on it.

He couldn’t explain why. Perhaps it was the way Clara had looked at him with sheer, unadulterated fear as he slipped his hand across the smooth skin of her thigh, in search of the mark that would identify her.

Perhaps it was the fact that, even before that, after she’d stared him down over a dinner table, he’d seen her at her most vulnerable; unconscious and powerless to stop him from doing anything he desired.

Perhaps… he was loathe to admit it, but perhaps it was the fact she’d kissed him. Was that shallow of him? Most probably. Was it something he thought of often? Although he would never confess to it, yes. It had been a long time since a woman had kissed him, and the feeling of her lips on his had been almost alien, especially when paired with the desperation driving the embrace. He wasn’t a fool; he knew that she held no interest in him and her actions were motivated purely by self-preservation, and yet still he couldn’t stop himself from fluffing up his ego, amused and repulsed in equal parts to have been kissed by such a wanted woman.

He’d spent several nights thinking about it: the soft fullness of her lips, his hand skirting up her thigh, and the thought of her as he’d first seen her — nude, and then in that wholly impractical lingerie. He was only human, after all, and he’d have to be blind not to notice that Clara Oswald was, in fact, an extremely attractive woman. An extremely attractive woman who’d kissed him — not because she wanted to; he was not naïve enough to think that — but still, it was a kiss. It may have been a distraction technique, but it was still a kiss. Still a small token of flattery, in his eyes at least.

He knew that it was dangerous to ruminate on the meaning behind a simple gesture like a kiss. He’d fallen into this trap before — he’d found himself consumed with the thought of a woman, and that had ended… well, his mind flicked back to HM Prison Bronzefield involuntarily, and Missy staring at him with fascination over the bolted-down table in Room 12. He’d like to avoid that happening again, and so he began to make notes, compiling together all the thoughts he’d had about Clara thus far into one enormous ring-binder.

Witness statements. Evidence. What little he could glean about her from social media. Her job. Her school. The information was categorised meticulously in a way he once would have found horrifying, but now was nothing short of helpful, and he pored over it every evening, both at work and at home, trying to understand how Clara Oswald thought and why she did what she did. She’d explained it to him, certainly, but addictions seldom grew from the desire to survive. There was an aspect of the whole affair that she hadn’t told him, and he would find out what that was. Whether directly or indirectly, he would discover what drove her to her actions.

Which was why the largest, and by far the messiest, section of the folder was dedicated to several pages that were neatly ruled down the middle into two approximately equal columns. The left was dedicated to Clara Oswald — to her crimes, to her words, to how she presented herself, and to the things he knew about her. The right was dedicated, against his better judgement, to Missy — to the things she’d said and done, and the insights that could bring him when used in reference to Clara. It was an imperfect science, certainly, but he was willing to give it a go if it could shed some light on how she thought. Dangerous women, while not easily understood, could perhaps be unpicked in comparison to each other — or so he hoped.

He’d known Missy for longer than he cared to admit, and he would never have considered her willing or able to kill.

Clara Oswald did not, at first glance, seem likely to commit murder either.

Not yet, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Over and over, all Clara could tell herself was that Bonnie was safe now.

It didn’t matter what happened to her; her own safety was irrelevant.

What mattered was that her sister was safe from harm, and safe from DCI Smith’s investigation.

She repeated it to herself hundreds of times an hour; silently, under her breath, or aloud, if the opportunity presented itself. It became a mantra and a coping mechanism — a way she could try to soothe her panic attacks and reassure herself that, no matter what the future held, at least it didn’t involve Bonnie rotting in prison in her place.

She couldn’t find it in her heart to tell Bonnie, at first, that Smith had identified her. She knew that it would allay her sister’s fears for her own safety, but then she would inevitably begin to fret about Clara instead, and the worry that would cause didn’t seem like a desirable outcome, so Clara kept her mouth shut. She kept her mouth shut and her head down and tried to carry on as normal, weighed down under the monumental pressure that came with the knowledge that, at any given moment, she could be dragged into police custody. It was a crushing sense of oppressive terror, one that drove her to jump every time she heard a police siren or the phone ring, and, as the days ticked by, she could sense her sister’s growing curiosity, until she eventually drank half a bottle of wine and confessed all to Bonnie.

Curled up together in Clara’s bed, the two of them held each other and cried, clinging together in a way they hadn’t done in many years. They knew the inevitable consequence of Smith’s discovery. They both knew how things would now play out. They knew what it meant for them, and for those around them, and yet the only people they truly wanted or needed was each other. Unable to comprehend the inescapability of their impending forced separation, they retreated into the all-consuming duality of their childhood, the two of them becoming inseparable in a way they had eschewed with the passing of their mother, and, by extension, their adolescence.

They dressed the same. They spoke the same. They behaved the same. They sat together, physical contact a continuous thread that stitched together their days of watchful waiting. If their housemates found it strange, they didn’t say a word, and that suited them both down to the ground. They wanted to be left alone. They wanted to develop and preserve the bond that would soon so harshly be stretched to its absolute limit.

They waited.

They watched.

The days passed, and it became apparent that whatever Smith was planning, it was not to be imminent. Somehow that was worse. Somehow, the uncertainty of knowing when he would spring into action was almost painful to Clara, who had readied herself for the worst many days prior. She’d accepted her fate with resigned dignity, but now? Now she was angry. Now she was furious — how could he make that appraisal of her, that uncomfortably physical appraisal, and then not act on it? She recalled the intrusive way he’d skirted his fingers over her thigh, feeling the angry, puckered skin of her developing scar, and had all but smirked.

The bastard had no idea how that felt. He had no idea how it felt to have someone invade your personal space like that; no idea how it felt to be reduced to a piece of meat that could be consumed by groping, entitled fingers. She flirted with the idea of returning to the station and treating him in a similar way — she wasn’t weak, she could bind a man down with ease, even a man of his stature — and the thought was appealing, in a way. But returning to the belly of the beast seemed dangerously foolhardy, and so instead she settled in to more waiting and watching, clinging to Bonnie like a lifeline and trying to appreciate every day of her liberty.

They went to wide open spaces, and narrow backstreets populated by cafés she once would have eschewed as too popular, or too mainstream. They visited cultural landmarks and judged works of art by impossibly silly, schoolgirl-like standards. They walked for hours in silence, or hours in conversation, relishing the ability to still do so unimpeded by handcuffs or Perspex or wardens. They tried to live each day like a celebration, and succeeded.

As time passed, however, Clara began to grow tired. The whole affair seemed too easy, and the continuance of her liberty — while welcome — seemed too much like an oversight. The only explanation she could feasibly entertain was that something bigger was planned. It was possible her entire network was about to be taken down by the police, and so, for a short while, they suspended their activity. Clara went on no jobs. She carried out no stings. Her fences and her hackers went to ground, and together they lay in watchful anticipation.

And still… nothing came. Whatever DCI Smith was doing, whatever his aspirations, Clara could feel her patience beginning to wane. Was he keeping her in suspense intentionally? Was he enjoying watching her suffer the pain of not knowing? Was he biding his time, ready to arrest her at the most opportunely humiliating moment?

She didn’t understand, and the stress of that began to show. She snapped at her sister. She snapped at her housemates. She snapped at her students.

Bonnie understood. Bonnie held her close and tried to placate her with soft soothing words, untroubled by Clara’s barbed jibes.

Her housemates understood, at least a little, that she was stressed about… something. Nothing she was willing to share, but something nonetheless. They bought her chocolate and wine, and retreated to a safe distance.

Her students did not understand. They looked at her with wary eyes, and handed their homework in on time. They read in silence, and behaved. All small victories, had she not been consumed by guilt.

She needed something to happen, or else this purgatory would slowly drive her mad.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, in the heat of it all, Clara had forgotten that it was time for a class trip. What's the worst that could happen?

Clara blinked down at the printout in front of her, trying to suppress the urge to scream. She’d known about the school trip for several weeks, and yet her brain had buried the knowledge in the back of her mind, preoccupied as she was by the imminent threat of arrest. Now, however, she had been reminded of it in the worst possible way — via an 8 a.m. staff meeting, and one that was lacking biscuits, at that.

“So, urm,” she began tentatively, unsure how none of her colleagues had noticed the sound of her heart pounding against her ribs. “This trip to Kensington… it’s compulsory?”

“Yes, Miss Oswald,” Mr Armitage said patiently. “As discussed, it’s a wonderful opportunity for our students to visit Albertopolis.”

Several members of staff looked up at him with expressions of blank incomprehension.

“The museums,” he said with a sigh, visibly disappointed that no one had understood the cultural reference. “The Victoria and Albert, Natural History Museum, and Science Museum. It’s a chance for our young people to engage with culture outside of their normal sphere of reality TV and rap music, and broaden their horizons.”

“Nothing wrong with rap music,” one of the student teachers muttered, and there was a smattering of derisive laughter from the rest of the room.

“Yes, I’m sure there isn’t,” Mr Armitage said with a frown. “Nonetheless, this is going to be a real cultural experience for our Year 10 students, so I’m delighted that we’ve been able to secure the time and budget to make it happen. Miss Oswald, I know you’ll do a sterling job engaging and enthusing your form.”

“I…” she swallowed thickly, attempting to formulate a lie; some valid reason why she couldn’t take the students to Kensington. “I have a prior commitment that day.”

“You can’t do,” Armitage’s frown intensified. “It’s a school day.”

“It’s a, uh… medical appointment.”

“Miss Oswald, you’re a terrible fibber. I don’t understand why on earth you would be so reticent to chaperone. I’d have thought this was right up your street, personally, so I look forward to seeing you there with your students, bright and engaged, on the day. No excuses. Understood?”

Clara nodded miserably, slumping down in her seat as she did so. There had to be a way around this. Turning up in Kensington was asking to be recognised by anyone wealthy and powerful who happened to be in the vicinity, and she had not spent several years conscientiously eschewing the entire area only for her cover to be blown and for her to be set upon in the street by a furious victim. Turning up with a gaggle of teenagers would do little to provide her with any protection from crazed oligarchs or millionaires, and she began to make a mental checklist of things she could do to avoid the situation altogether, or, at the very least, ameliorate it, ignoring the rest of Armitage’s words.

She could phone in sick.

She could genuinely injure herself and claim she needed to go to hospital.

She’d have to think of something, either way.

And fast.

 

* * *

 

“I’m really not sure about this,” Bonnie said for the thousandth time that evening, looking up at Clara from her position crouched on the floor. She was holding a pilfered scalpel in one hand, and a brand-new, soon-to-be-ruined tea towel in the other, and she was pointedly avoiding staring at the ugly, raised scar on Clara’s thigh. “Like… really, really not sure. At all.”

“I’m not asking you to be sure,” Clara said through gritted teeth. “I’m asking you to cut the scar open so it bleeds and I have a legitimate excuse to not go on this bloody trip.”

“Couldn’t you just say you have ‘women’s problems’? Armitage seems like the sort of bloke who’d be sufficiently embarrassed at the mere suggestion that he’d let you get away with it.”

“No, I can’t. He’s already suspicious; I’ve tried to get out of it at least six times.”

“Rookie error,” Bonnie said with maddening smugness. “Should’ve just not mentioned it and then had a sudden-onset migraine.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that now,” Clara rolled her eyes. “Can you please just stab me, already?”

“Can you please not phrase it like that?” Bonnie visibly blanched. “It’s… not a great prospect anyway.”

“I know it’s not, but do you have any better ideas?”

“Urm,” Bonnie shrugged, then suggested: “Bus accident? Whiplash? Back injury?”

“It’s got to be something I can actually back up with photographic evidence, Bon.”

“Can’t you just use old photos of your leg?”

“You mean all the ones I deleted in case they could be used as evidence?”

“Ah,” Bonnie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “So, this really is the only option?”

“It really is,” Clara reiterated sombrely. “So, can you please just get it over with?”

“How many times have you said that in the last year?” her twin smirked, and Clara sighed impatiently. “Sorry. Nervous talker.”

“I know you are,” Clara tried to mentally steel herself. “Please can you just do it?”

“Fine,” Bonnie swallowed thickly and adjusted the scalpel in her hand, placing one hand against Clara’s leg to steady herself. “Got something to bite on?”

Clara nodded and stuffed a clean T-shirt into her mouth, closing her eyes and biting down on it.

“Right,” Bonnie said, and Clara inhaled deeply through her nose, bracing herself for the pain. “One… two… no, sorry, fuck this, I can’t do it.”

Clara’s eyes snapped open and she scowled down at her twin, yanking the bunched up cotton from her mouth and tossing it aside. “Please,” she begged. “Please, Bon, please. For god sake, if they send me there… anything could happen! Walking past Harrods with a class of fifteen-year-olds is not going to be a sufficient disguise. I could see anyone. I could be _attacked_ by anyone. Hell, for all I know, DCI Smith could be loitering around there — I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“I just…” Bonnie looked up at her helplessly, sitting back on her haunches and sighing in resignation. “I can’t do it, Clara. I can’t hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“For fuck sake,” Clara snapped, snatching the scalpel and looking down at her leg. “I suppose I’ll have to-”

“Don’t you dare,” Bonnie seized it back and threw it a short distance away, where it stuck blade-down in the floorboards, quivering softly. “Clara. Stop it. Stop this. Just go, and try to minimise the time spent out on the street. Alright?”

“Fine,” Clara muttered. “I guess I’ll just… wear really big sunglasses or something.”

“What about a wig? You could lie about changing your hairstyle for the new season.”

“I’m not wearing a wig. If I wear it on the trip then I’ll have to wear it all summer, and that is… not an appealing prospect.”

“Fine, no wig,” Bonnie sighed. “Just… be careful, alright? And abandon all ideas of self-mutilation for the sake of playing truant, or I’ll have to supervise you.”

“Bon-”

“In fact, I might just do that anyway.”

 

* * *

 

It had to be said, the trip progressed more smoothly than Clara anticipated. The brilliant May sunshine had provided the perfect excuse for her to wear her sunglasses outside, and the other teachers had shot her knowing winks, undoubtedly assuming that she was hungover or similarly incapacitated by the brightness of the day. There had been minimal bad behaviour from the students on the Tube, facilitated by several stern looks and threats of detention, and, upon arrival in Kensington, the students had dutifully traipsed to the first museum of the day, clipboards in hand, looking wholly gleeful about the prospect of spending a day out of the classroom. There had been some low-level waving around of aforementioned clipboards, and several students had found themselves the victim of clipboard-based assault, but it was all in good fun and Clara had turned a largely blind eye to it, allowing the students to self-occupy as they traversed the short stretch of road between the Tube station and the museums.

Once inside, the group had become the primary responsibility of the unwitting tour guides, and the teachers had retreated to the back of the group, gossiping and casting the occasional wary eye over the teenagers lest they become too unmanageable. It was relaxed, it was safe, and it was even — Clara had dared to think to herself — fun. She hadn’t visited the museums since she was a student, and, despite this visit’s specific focuses on learning outcomes, she’d still managed to enjoy herself.

Lunch had passed without incident in the courtyard of the Victoria and Albert Museum, the students munching sandwiches and taking selfies, jotting down notes, and occasionally chasing away an errant pigeon that strayed too close to their food. Clara had allowed herself to relax, satisfied that there were going to be no incidents of outstandingly poor behaviour to have to report back to Mr Armitage, and she’d felt a stab of gratitude that she’d elected to come on the trip, rather than allow Bonnie to open her scar again and render her bed-bound. She’d been worried over nothing, she told herself. She’d been needlessly paranoid.

As the day turned to evening, the time came to chaperone the students back in the direction of the Underground, and so she took her place at the head of the group and set off along Brompton Road, chatting to April MacLean as she went. April was a quiet, conscientious sort of teenager with few friends, and Clara knew that the opportunity to talk to someone with shared interests was a rarity for the young woman, and so she devoted herself to the conversation as wholly as she was able, occasionally turning to check that the remainder of the students were keeping pace, or exchange a thumbs up with the teacher at the rear of the group.

It had been agreed to take the students back to Knightsbridge Station for the simple reason that the teens had nagged to be allowed to go window-shopping in the designer shops that lined the route. Capitulating to their desires had seemed easier than entering into an impossible-to-win argument, and so it was that the group came to amble past Harrods, the students gravitating towards the enormous windows with expressions of wonder. Clara hung back, allowing them to filter past her and cross the pavement to compare notes on dream handbags and enviable technology, and as she offered April a silent nod of permission to go and look with her peers, she felt a hand settle on her shoulder.

Turning instinctively towards it, she found herself face to face with Victor Kennedy, his expression contorted with loathing and disgust.

“Vile woman!” he cried, his voice oddly high as he seized hold of her by the wrist. “You abominable human being, how dare you show your face around here?”

“I…” Clara gave a nervous laugh, acutely aware that all thirty students and three fellow teachers had turned to stare at the scene now unfolding before them. “I don’t know what you mean… I’m here with…”

His fist connected with the side of her face before she could say another word, the shock of the blow driving her backwards and into the road. Stumbling off the kerb, she felt her hands hit the tarmac and absorb the shock of the impact, and she was dimly aware of the sound of a car horn blaring to her left, although it seemed impossibly far away. Stars were popping in front of her eyes, and there was a hot pain across her palms, and-

“Miss Oswald!” April half-dragged her out of the road, a taxi speeding past seconds later accompanied with a shouted oath from the driver. Blinking hard, Clara focused on her student, who was staring at her with wide-eyed concern. “Oh, my god… that man had _no right_ … he just hit you and ran! Half the class took off after him; I think Ram might actually have vanished… but your head! We’re calling 999-”

“I don’t need an ambulance,” Clara said firmly, attempting to shake her head and then finding it exacerbated the discomfort. “Or any police.”

“But your face is all swollen,” April frowned, and Clara lifted her hand, wincing as her fingers made contact with her cheek. As she did so, she realised the skin had been ripped from her palms, which were embedded with tiny specks of grit, and her wrists were screaming in protest, and she started to shake. “We should get you-”

“Really, I’m alright. We need to get you all home, and then I’ll take myself to A&E. I’m fine. Honestly.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I _did_ just get punched in the head.”

“So you need an ambulance! Or at the very least a police officer, that man could have really hurt you!”

“I’m alright,” Clara said again, trying to look stoic and stop trembling for long enough to convince April. “I’ll be alright. We just… we need to get back to Coal Hill. Please. That’s what matters.”

“Clara-” one of the other teachers interjected, chewing his lip worriedly. “Are you sure-”

“I’m sure!” she snapped, then took a deep breath. “Really, really sure. We need to get the kids back safely, and then we can worry about me, Adrian. That’s the priority.”

After a moment he nodded, and she allowed herself to exhale.

She did have someone in mind to call.

It just wasn’t someone her colleagues would have expected.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John receives a phone call from a most unexpected person - one with some pressing questions.

Not that he’d have admitted it, but John Smith was sound asleep at his desk when his office phone rang. He’d spent the better part of the previous twelve hours at work, and there was only so much that coffee could do to counter the mounting sleep deprivation he’d been putting himself through in a bid to try to get inside the head of Clara Oswald, and so he’d put leant back in his chair for what he’d intended to be a short power nap, but instead it stretched into first one hour, and then two.

At the shrill ringing of the phone, however, he jolted awake and looked over at it with bleary eyes, cursing Alexander Graham Bell and cursing the bastard who’d decided each office needed its own phone. He remembered the good old days, when it was one telephone per street — if you were lucky — and he was still lost in that wistful train of thought as he snatched up the receiver and barked: “Smith!” 

“Urm, hi.” 

He froze, looking at the handset in horror as he realised who he was speaking to.

“How the hell did you get this number?” he blurted, unable to formulate any more-sensible questions. “This is supposed to be-” 

“A secure line,” Clara Oswald interrupted, sighing before continuing: “I know. Danny gave it to me in case of emergencies.”

“Emergencies or phone sex?” 

There was a distinctly frosty undertone to her voice as she said, sharply: “Emergencies.” 

“Sorry,” John said after a moment, realising he may have been unnecessarily callous. “I didn’t mean… sorry. Why are you ringing me? I’m not… you know, not in a horrible way, but I’m not _him_.” 

“No, you’re not, but I think this might be an emergency.” 

“Are you alright?” he asked, his brow furrowing as he leant forwards and put his elbows on the edge of his desk. There was a twinge in his chest that he couldn’t fully interpret; professional concern, perhaps, or a sense of duty of care towards his suspect. “What’s happened? Where are you?” 

“I’m not telling you where I am,” she said, then groaned. “Well, it’s not like you don’t already know where I live, anyway.”

“Correct.”

“Why haven’t you arrested me yet, DCI Smith?” 

“I…” he blinked, swallowing hard as he found himself entirely wrongfooted by the question. He’d been half-expecting it from her at some point — the probe as to why her liberty was ongoing – but still, not now. Not like this, with her experiencing some kind of unspecified emergency and him exhausted by it all. “You fascinate me.”

 _Shit_ , he thought to himself at once, regretting the words the instant they left his mouth. _Shit, that sounds… weird. Obsessive. Sexual, almost._  

Clara laughed, her tone laced with genuine amusement and something else — something almost like pride. “Really?” she asked with curiosity. “In what sense?” 

“I’ve known women — one woman — like you before,” John admitted, against his better judgement. “And I want to try to understand you both.” 

“How is she like me?” 

“Deranged. Power-crazed.” 

“I’m neither deranged nor power-crazed,” she shot back at once, and he could all but see the pout she surely had adopted at the other end of the line. “I’m just… egomaniacal.” 

“You actually _said_ that.”

“Yes, I did. So, what happened to her? This woman of yours.” 

“She wasn’t ‘mine.’” The lie tugged at John’s heart as he fought to keep his mind from flashing back to the past. “She’s in prison.”

“For?” 

“What?” 

“What did she do? Who did she rob?” 

“She didn’t rob anyone,” he swallowed thickly. “She killed someone.” 

“And you think I’m likely to do the same?” 

“I don’t know,” he confessed in a small voice, leaning back in his seat and running a hand through his hair. “Are you?” 

“Why would I kill anyone? I have no desire to take a life. I’ve seen death, DCI Smith, and I don’t intend to inflict that kind of suffering on anyone else.” 

“What if it happened by chance? You were disturbed, and you had to kill someone else to save your own skin?” 

“Then I wouldn’t do it,” she said softly, the gentleness catching him unawares. He had tried for so long to cast her as heartless, and yet… she was far from it. “You underestimate me, DCI Smith. You think I’m some kind of psychopath; some kind of cold woman with no heart and no sense of compassion. You’re wrong. You’ve seen me at my place of work — you know what I do. You think I could do that if I had no compassion? You think I could do that if I didn’t feel for each one of my students when they experience pain or grief or sadness or stress?”

“And yet… you place them at risk of experiencing those very things with each little side job you carry out.” 

She laughed again, but without warmth this time. “You think they care for me at all, beyond being a face at the front of a room? Beyond being a name on a report card? Beyond being the bitch who gets them into trouble with their parents for only giving them a C?” 

“They respect you.” 

“I’m sorry?!” 

“When I saw you with them… I could see they respected you. Don’t confuse respect with a lack of empathy. They would be more concerned about you than you know; stop taking these risks.”

“I can’t,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “Literally, I can’t.” 

“Explain. You said you had an emergency; so explain what it is.” 

“There was…” she took a shuddering breath. “There was a school trip. Knightsbridge — the museums. I tried and tried to get out of it, but I couldn’t, and, as we were leaving… Victor Kennedy saw me.” 

“The self-same Victor Kennedy you robbed?” 

“Yes, him. He, ah… he hit me. Hard.” 

“Literally, or figuratively?”

“Literally,” there was the sound of her exhaling shakily. “In the side of the head. I’m on concussion watch.” 

“Why are you calling me?” 

“I…” there was a pause. “I don’t know, alright? It just seemed… I don’t know.” 

“What do you want me to do? If I bring him in, you’ll be exposed to questioning, and most likely arrested yourself.” 

“I know you can’t,” she snapped. “I’m not going to press charges for that precise reason, so bringing him in would be a waste of police resources. Not to mention the fact he undoubtedly has an entire team of lawyers, so that would be an entirely pointless line of investigation.” 

“So, I suppose my hands are tied,” he said uncomfortably. “I won’t be bringing him in. Clara, you’re a wanted woman and you’re phoning me up… what, for comfort? A shoulder to cry on? What, exactly?” 

“I don’t know,” she said again, and he could hear the impatience and hurt in her tone. “I just… I don’t know. I thought you might give a shit.” 

“Why would I give a shit?” he asked, then immediately regretted the coldness with which the words left his mouth. 

“Never mind,” she muttered, and with a _click_ the line went dead. 

John lowered the handset back into its cradle with a regretful sigh, wishing he could recant his words. 

He _did_ care. He didn’t know why or in what capacity, but the truth of the matter was that he cared about Clara in a way that he sincerely hoped was solely professional. If — _when_ — he brought her in, there would be concerns raised over the injury she had sustained. He should have asked her more about it; should have tried to ascertain the extent to which she was now incapacitated. He should have made sure she was receiving proper medical treatment, although he dimly recalled that one of her housemates was a junior doctor. He wondered how Clara was explaining this all away to her — the constant stream of injuries and war wounds that must surely be piquing their curiosity.

Was she bleeding? Was her eye swollen shut? Was anything broken? Was she concussed, or merely at risk of it? 

Clara would be with her twin, that much he was certain of, and he hoped to high hell that she was being taken care of. It wouldn’t do well if anything were to happen to her before he could close the case.

Was that all it was? he asked himself. Was it merely professional concern that fuelled his worry for her well-being? Could it be that, instead, he was worried for the woman behind the Impossible Girl persona — the woman he had seen during that first encounter in his office and at Danny’s funeral? She was an expert at creating a front of lies; an expert at hiding behind the character she had created with her alter ego. And yet, underneath it all was a vulnerability that bled through and tugged at his heartstrings, reminding him that she was human after all.

He sighed, knowing what he needed to do tomorrow.

But first, he had an important meeting scheduled with a takeaway and his bed.

 

* * *

 

“How badly does it hurt?” Bonnie asked, absent-mindedly, lifting the ice pack away from the side of her sister’s face and wincing at the sight of the bruised skin. 

“Quite a lot,” Clara closed her eyes, letting out a small, gratified noise of satisfaction as a fresh ice pack was placed against her cheek. “That’s helping, though.”

“Any nausea? Dizziness?” 

“No, I don’t think so,” Clara reached for her sister’s hand and meshed their fingers together. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be. I should’ve tried harder to help you get out of that bloody trip.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Clara reassured her, softly. “You’ve been nothing short of an angel, honestly.” 

“I just…” Bonnie sighed. “I feel powerless.” 

“Don’t.” 

“I should be doing more to keep you safe, but I don’t know how.”

“Nobody can keep me safe better than I can.” 

“Because that’s going _so_ well for you today.” 

“Point taken,” Clara smiled, sadly. “I just don’t want you blaming yourself for this. I’ve made bad decisions and it’s time I face up to the consequences. First my leg, now my head. Who knows what it’ll be next, eh? Maybe an arm? Maybe a hand? It’s like a really crap guessing game.”

“What if next time it’s lethal?” 

“It won’t be.”

“You can’t promise that.” 

“I can damn well try to.” 

“No, you can stop all this. Except you can’t, and you won’t. You’re addicted, and it’s going to kill you, Clara. I’ve begged and I’ve pleaded and I’ve tried to make you see what it’s like to watch you make the same stupid choices every single week; to watch you do these immoral things and hurt people. And do you know what I’ve realised?” Bonnie abruptly let go of Clara’s hand. “You’re not my sister.” 

“I… what?” 

“You’re not my sister anymore. My sister would never have done the things you have; my sister would never have made the choices you have. I don’t know who the hell you are, but you’re not Clara Oswald and you’re not my sister. You’re just… you’re a stranger to me. I’ve tried to be nice and I’ve tried to understand, but I can’t do it forever. I’ve made excuses for you and I’ve tried to be sympathetic, but I’ve had enough.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“I don’t want anything more to do with this, Clara. I don’t want anything more to do with you.” 

“Bon-”

“No, don’t ‘Bon’ me. I don’t want anything more to do with this. I don’t know you. I don’t know what the hell happened to my twin, but you’re just… you’re a stranger. What would Mum have said? What would Dad say? I’m inclined to phone him and tell him the entire story, but I think the shame and humiliation of it all would kill him.” 

“Don’t you dare…”

“No, don’t _you_ dare to try and make me feel bad for prioritising myself for once. I’ve listened to you and I’ve cared for you and I’m not doing it any longer. When you feel like yourself again, and when you stop this entire ridiculous business, then maybe we can talk and work things out. Until then… I have no sister, alright?”

Clara, dumbfounded, managed to ask: “But we… we live in the same…” 

“I’m going to stay with friends for a while. Don’t try to contact me.” 

“Bonnie… Bonnie, please… don’t do this,” Clara felt her eyes burn with tears. “Bon, please, come on, I love you; please… I’m sorry…” 

Bonnie got to her feet, dusting herself down and taking a deep breath. 

“No, Clara. I’m done. Alright? I’m done.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara finds someone waiting for her at the school gates. Someone with a story to tell.

Clara was exhausted. Since yesterday, she’d had little in the way of sleep, even less to eat, and her head was throbbing uncomfortably, rendering her dizzy and prone to knocking into things. After colliding with assorted tables and chairs in five separate incidents over the course of the day, she’d eventually conceded defeat and remained at her own desk, staying steadfastly seated as she’d wished the remainder of the day’s lessons away.

She’d been on the verge of leaving for the evening when she’d been ambushed by Armitage for a frank discussion about her well-being, after which she found herself both in pain _and_ annoyed, and so she’d slunk out the back of the school to avoid any further interactions with well-meaning colleagues, determined not to be engaged in any more chit-chat or to find herself on the receiving end of any more probing questions. Yes, her head hurt. Yes, she’d had it looked at — she neglected to mention that it was only by her housemate. Yes, she was fine — except for the fact her twin had forsaken her entirely. No, she didn’t need anyone’s help, or pity, or sympathetic looks. No, she didn’t know who’d hit her, No, there had been no arrests.

She was so engrossed in her own bitter thoughts, clenching and unclenching her fists with each step she took, that she almost collided with someone standing outside the school as she crossed the road. Looking up at the person as she reflexively opened her mouth to apologise, she instead let out a yelp of horror, taking a step backwards and almost stumbling to the ground. 

“Hey,” DCI Smith said, catching hold of her wrists before she could topple back onto the rough tarmac of the pavement. “Careful.”

“I…” she felt her heart rate beginning to accelerate, and her chest beginning to constrict with panic. “Why… why are you here? Are you going to arrest me? Because please, _please_ can we not do it here? Anyone could see… I’ll come with you, but not from here, and please can I make a call f-”

“I’m not here to arrest you,” DCI Smith said in a placating tone, and somehow that was all the more jarring; was he lying to her? Was he trying to lull her into a false sense of security? “I just want to talk. And I thought you might want to talk to me, too.”

“Why would you think that?” Clara asked bitterly, raising her chin defiantly and trying to catch her breath. “You don’t give a shit, remember? You told me that on the phone yesterday. Is your memory getting short in your old age?” 

“I didn’t…” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean that. I was confused and disconcerted and, if I’m honest, concerned.” 

“About?” 

“You.” 

“You sounded really concerned whilst insinuating I might become a murderer, yeah.” 

“Clara, that wasn’t what I…” 

“I _fascinate_ you. That was what you said. What precisely is it about me that fascinates you? What precisely is it that you get off on?” 

“Clara...” he sighed again. “Please, drop the spiky, defensive act. I just want to talk to you.” 

For Clara, this was something new; she was unaccustomed to DCI Smith’s bluster and bravado being entirely absent. Beneath it, he seemed… well, almost normal. For a moment, she entertained the thought that he could be the kind of man she might have wanted to be friends with, were it not for his day job.   

“In handcuffs or not in handcuffs?” she said. 

“Decidedly not in handcuffs.” 

“At the station?” 

“No, urm…” John dithered for a moment. “At mine, actually. Seemed a bit less threatening.” 

“How do I know that your boss isn’t going to be waiting there with half the Met to stick me in cuffs and march me off to the station?” 

“Because I don’t want her to have the opportunity to speak to you or get to you before I’ve had the chance to talk to you about everything.” 

“A bit possessive, are we?” 

“Perhaps a little,” he shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “Or perhaps I don’t want her stealing all my glory when I eventually bring you in.” 

“‘When’?” Clara smirked. “More like ‘if.’” 

“Look, do you want to talk, or not? Because I feel like you do, and I know that I do, so either get in the car or don’t get in the car.” He nodded in the direction of his nearby car. 

Clara hesitated, weighing up her options. There was the risk of him betraying her, certainly, but there was also something inexplicably earnest and open in his gaze — something that suggested to her he was speaking from a place of sincerity, and bore her no ill will; not tonight, at any rate. Even if he did stick her in handcuffs and take her down to the station, she had nothing left to lose; her own sister no longer cared about her, so there was little point in being concerned about her own fate. 

Shrugging, Clara opened the passenger door and climbed in, watching John’s face cycle through several emotions as he realised the significance of what she was doing. He remained where he was, leaning against the bonnet of his car, for several seconds until she raised her eyebrows at him in a silent challenge and he jerked into motion, getting into the driver’s seat and starting the engine. 

“So, this is happening,” he said shakily, putting the car into gear, and it was then that Clara realised he hadn’t anticipated her actually conceding to his wishes. “Wow.”

“Yes, wow,” she said in as flat a tone as she could manage, turning to stare out of the window with studiously feigned boredom in an attempt to mask her nerves. “It really is.”

 

* * *

 

Clara wasn’t sure what she was expecting from John’s flat, but it wasn’t the dark and forbidding place she had anticipated. It was modestly sized and reasonably clean, but that was about the limit of the positive things she could say about it. There was a pervasive air of unhappiness that seemed to linger, coupled with the inescapable lack of homeliness that combined to further emphasise to her that, whoever DCI Smith was when he wasn’t at work, it wasn’t someone content with his own life. 

“So, urm,” John leant in the doorway and gestured to the sofa. “Get comfy. Coffee? Tea?”

“No, thank you.” 

“I’m not going to put anything in it.” 

“I’ll believe that when I see it.” 

“So, come and watch me make it then.”

Clara got to her feet at once, heartened by his offer of transparency, and followed him to the kitchen. Perching atop a counter, she watched with eagle-like attention as he bustled around before realising she hadn’t answered the question. 

“Tea or coffee?” 

“Tea. Please.”

He nodded, looking relieved, and set about preparing them each a cup, the two of them remaining in silence as he did so, awkwardness settling over them like a mantle. Only when they both had a hot drink in their hands did she speak, daring to ask the first question. 

“Why am I here?” 

“Because I want to understand you.” 

“You seem to understand a lot more than I would like you to… both entirely unbidden and without having needed to drag me to your frankly underwhelming flat.” 

“There are things I don’t understand about you, and I don’t feel that the station is the most conducive environment to uncovering great truths about people.” 

“What’s to say you’re going to uncover any great truths about me?” 

DCI Smith rolled his eyes as he led the way back to the lounge, taking a seat on the sofa and indicating she should do the same. She perched at the extreme opposite end, eyeing him warily and taking a sip of her tea. 

“Because I want to know them, and you seem to want to be more honest than you’re letting on. You want to know what I think? I think there’s a lot of questions you’ve been waiting to be asked, and, if the right person asked them, I think you’d tell them the truth.” 

“And you think you’re the right person?”

“I don’t know. I might be.” 

“OK, ask the first question.” Clara took a sip of her tea. 

“Why do you do it? What you do? That is, why do you _really_ do it?”   

She let out a bitter yelp of bemusement. “Not answering that one, sunshine.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I’m not.” 

“Alright, then, how long have you been doing it?” 

“Or that one.” 

“Come on,” he asked, groaning. “Cut me some slack here.” 

“You seem to know a lot about me already,” she mused, deciding to turn the tables. “And yet I know nothing about you, DCI Smith.” 

“You can call me John,” he said in a rush, looking embarrassed almost as soon as the words had left his mouth. “I’m not on duty. John is fine.”

“Well, John,” the name, and its connotations of an assumed familiarity that did not exist, seemed jarring to say,  “why are you so fascinated by me?” 

He stared at her in silence for several seconds, then said, quietly: “My best friend.” 

“What?” 

“The woman I knew; the woman like you. The one who killed someone. She was my best friend.” 

“For the last time, I’m not going to-”

“What you have to understand is that she was the same as you, once. She was strong and powerful and self-assured. She made men fall at her feet — she made the _world_ fall at her feet. She was the boss, she was the leader, and she was brilliant. Ferociously intelligent. We’d grown up together and, all of my life, she was the only person who ever really understood what it was like to be bright and to burn with ambition, and to come from the place we did. She was the only one who knew how that felt — to have dreams, but to know you would have to set them aside.” 

“I don’t-” 

“No, just listen. Alright? Just listen,” John took a deep breath. “I knew she had a darkness to her. Even as kids, Missy — that was my friend — would do weird things; bad things, dangerous things. She never got caught, though, she was much too silver-tongued for that, and so, after I started at Hendon, she decided to follow in my footsteps. Call it inspiration, call it copying, call it jealousy… she couldn’t stand to see me do anything without her, and so we worked together and we tried to bring order to the streets of Glasgow. No mean feat.” 

John paused, unsure as to whether to continue. Clara smiled encouragingly at him. 

“And then I fell in love with this wonderful, amazing, smart, funny woman. River. Not a conventional name, but she wasn’t a conventional woman. And, oh, Missy burned with envy. She loathed River — even when we got married, Missy burned with so much hatred at the reception I was worried she might do something stupid. But she didn’t. Instead, she seethed for decades, and then…” he swallowed thickly. “Then I found out my wife had done something unforgiveable. He, ah… he was a colleague… it had started on a work trip. She was always very much out there — very much flirting with the entire room — but I’d never thought… I didn’t ever think she’d actually…” 

“I’m sorry,” Clara offered in a small voice, unsure what else to say. “I’m… I’m really sorry.” 

“So was River, but the damage was done. We split up and she kept seeing the bastard, and I just… god, it was eating me up, and, of course, Missy was there. She was there to hug me and soothe me and tell me what a bitch my wife was, and I listened to her and let my anger simmer. I could have tried to fix things with River; I could have tried to win her back, but I was too stubborn and too driven by Missy’s words and so I filed for divorce, like a fool. And then…” he took a long swig from his mug. “Things with Missy changed and became physical. She was just… I don’t know. She knew me better than I knew myself. In every way. And, for a month or so, everything was better. But then I found out that my ex-wife was going to marry the bastard who took her from me. I lost it. I just… I don’t remember much, but I remember breaking down.” 

Clara felt a sudden sense of foreboding. 

“The next day, River was found with her throat slit. And my department tried to find out who did it — they went through all the usual suspects. They even thought it might have been me at one point — they’d interrogated River’s new partner, but he had a cast-iron alibi, so suspicion fell on me as the bitter, resentful ex. Missy was so understanding about it all, of course and so kind.” He dropped his gaze to the floor and continued in a tremulous voice: “And then they found out it was her.” 

“Oh, my god,” Clara breathed. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’d known she had that darkness within her, but I never thought… I never really thought she could do something like that. I asked her why she’d done it and she said she wanted me to be happy — like I could ever be happy knowing the woman I loved was dead.” 

“John…” 

“I’m scared for you, Clara. You’ve got the same darkness within you; the same burning ambition and resentment I don’t know what for, but I can sense it.. You deserve punishment, yes, but you don’t deserve to have your life taken from you, and if you kill…” 

“I’m _not_ going to kill anyone,” she said fervently, aghast by the very notion. She might be a lot of things, but she knew that she didn’t have it in her to snuff out a life, regardless of what John seemed to think. “I don’t know who you think I am, but-”

“I never thought Missy would.” 

“I’m not Missy!” 

“I need you to promise me you’re not going to take that route. Please.” 

“Why would you even take my word for anything? You aren’t supposed to trust me; I’m a wanted woman.” 

“You might have the same darkness in you, but I think you’re scared. I think you want to stop. And if you’ll let me, I could help you to.” 

“You…” she froze, taken aback by the pertinent timing of his offer. Would stopping what she did help to win Bonnie back? Almost certainly. Would she be able to manage it? Well, that was another question entirely, but she was willing to try. She couldn’t keep living how she was, dancing with danger on a weekly basis. She couldn’t keep taking risks that she was constantly trying to justify to herself. “What?” 

“You don’t deserve to waste your life behind bars. I could help you to stop. I could rehabilitate you.” 

“You’d… you’d let me go free?” 

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Yes, if you’ll just give me your word…” 

Without hesitation, Clara set her mug down and crossed the space between them in a fluid movement, pressing her lips to his in a kiss of absolute gratitude.

“You have my word,” she murmured into the kiss, as his hands found her waist.  


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old habits die hard.

When John awoke the next morning, he spent several seconds in blissful ignorance before recalling that there was, in fact, a moderately dangerous criminal asleep on the sofa in his lounge. Or there had been when he’d gone to sleep, at any rate; a quick flex of his wrists and a glance around the room confirmed that, at the very least, he was unbound and seemingly un-robbed, but there was still the pressing concern as to whether his TV remained in its usual place, and if his work laptop was where he’d half-hidden it. In retrospect, he should have insisted Clara take his bed — there were far fewer items of value in his sparsely furnished bedroom than there were in the lounge, and, by leaving her out there, she was free to wander around the rest of his flat at will. A poor decision, in hindsight, not least because leaving her to sleep on his lumpy, uneven sofa seemed entirely ungentlemanly. 

Groaning, he got to his feet and pulled on his dressing gown, padding down the hall and feeling a rising sense of apprehension with each step. As he pushed open the door to the lounge, he swore under his breath as he took in the neatly folded blanket and pillow left at one end of the sofa, and the conspicuous lack of Clara Oswald. He didn’t need to search the rest of the flat to know that she was gone, and he supposed he should have seen this coming. Casting his gaze around the room, he was relieved to discover his TV was still present, and he reached behind the sofa and weighed up his laptop bag in one hand, determining at once that the computer was still within. He resolved in that instant to return it to the station later that day; he was never particularly one for technology, and the item seemed more of a hindrance than a help. Give him paper folders any-

He froze as his train of thought came to a crashing halt, crossing the room to his makeshift desk he’d assembled in the corner. He began pawing through the files piled haphazardly atop it, feeling a growing sense of foreboding as he realised what a fool he’d been. He’d been lulled into a false sense of security by Clara, so much so that he’d failed to take sensible precautions; he’d allowed himself to be so distracted by her pretty smile and sense of interest in his story that he’d let his guard down and left her unattended with the files pertaining to her case. 

Files that were now conspicuous by their absence. 

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, loathing himself for his own stupidity. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

He looked over at the laptop he had dismissed as a useless heap of junk minutes earlier, and decided to throw caution to the wind.

 

* * *

 

Clara looked down at her phone as it rang, knowing who the caller would be without having to check the display. The contents of the files she’d taken from DCI Smith that morning were strewn over her bed in front of her, and to one side lay the framed photograph of her mother that she’d also retrieved from John’s flat, waiting to be returned to its previous home on her bookshelf. She felt a stab of guilt at her actions the previous evening, particularly following John’s kindness towards her, and yet she needed to know how much he knew about her; needed to know the extent to which he could destroy her if he so desired. Ignoring the shrill ringing of her phone, she turned a page of handwritten notes, squinting down at the near-illegible handwriting and trying to surmise from the scrawl how much John knew about Danny’s role in protecting her from the full force of the Met’s investigation.

Her phone stopped ringing and then immediately began to ring again, and after several repetitions of the same cycle, she sighed impatiently and answered the call.

“About time. You stole my bloody files,” snapped the voice at the other end. “How dare you?” 

“I borrowed them,” she said in a placating tone, leaning back against her pillows and rolling her eyes. “To do some research.” 

“Into what?”

“Into what you know about me, and what you know about Danny.” 

“What does that matter? We gave each other our word last night; doesn’t that mean anything to you?” 

“Yes, but at the end of the day, you’re a police officer. I can’t trust you, remember?” 

“And you’re a criminal, so same,” he shot back, and she resisted the urge to sigh with impatience. “You have the files still, yes? You haven’t… I don’t know, incinerated them?”

“No, and I’m not going to. I just want to find out how clever you are.”

“And you couldn’t have done that by talking to me?” 

“Patently not.” 

“Rude.”

“Well, I didn’t want you to lie to me. Data and facts don’t lie,” she asserted with a shrug. “You’ve done well, by the way. Very in-depth investigation. Nice work.” 

“Thank you,” he said wearily, sounded wrong-footed by the compliment. “I’m glad it’s met your exacting standards. Am I going to get my files back? Or are they yours forever now? Because I feel that my boss will definitely notice missing paperwork, and will definitely ask questions. It’s going to be a lot harder to help you if I’m in prison for aiding and abetting you in your crimes.” 

“You will not be going to prison,” Clara rolled her eyes again. “I’m only borrowing them. You can have them back as soon as I’m done, alright?” 

“Which will be…?”

“I don’t know yet,” she clicked her tongue, irked by his sense of urgency. “Couple of days? I have something else to get done, and then they’re all yours.” 

“What is that something?” 

“Well, I want you to think of it as a last hurrah.” 

“No,” he said at once, and she could tell he would be shaking his head vehemently at the mere idea. “No, no, no. You’re not doing this, Clara. You’re supposed to be winding things down. You’re supposed to be stopping all of this. We never discussed this last night.” 

“No, because I kissed you and then you got all embarrassed and blurted something about going to bed.”

“I…” Clara knew he was blushing, and she couldn’t help but smirk at the recollection of how he had done the same the previous evening. “Yes, well, I wasn’t…” 

“You weren’t expecting a beautiful woman to kiss you. Common complaint.” 

“I… well… urm…” he took a deep breath, then continued in a steadier tone: “You still didn’t say anything about a last hurrah.” 

“I was still formulating the idea. If I’m going to retire, I want to go out in a blaze of glory.” 

“That seems like a poor plan.” 

“Really? I thought it was a great plan.” 

“Who are you going to — no, actually, don’t tell me, because then I’m involved and I can’t deny anything.” 

“Relax, John. All I’m saying is that it’s someone who very much deserves his comeuppance.” 

“You say that about all of them.” 

“There’s a lot of rich arseholes in London,” she reminded him, looking over at the notes again. “Do keep that in mind.” 

“Look, just promise that this really will be the last one. The very last hurrah.” 

“I promise,” she said solemnly, for once entirely sincere. “Happy?” 

“I suppose so. When can I have my files back?” 

“Give me a week,” she told him. “And then they’re all yours. OK?” 

“Fine. Be careful, alright?” 

“Always am.”

“We both know that’s a lie.”

“Well, I’ll do my best.” 

“Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

The following days were consumed with planning and preparation. As far as Clara was concerned, if this was to be her last hurrah, then it needed to be spectacular — daring and bold and dangerous and just a _little_ bit mad. There was only one suitable target she could think of, and so she set about researching as much as she was able to find about his numerous companies, his social life, and his personal life, intent on pulling off the perfect final job. 

She thought, fleetingly and longingly, about contacting her sister and letting her know what her intentions were. She was certain that Bonnie would be heartened to know she would be going cold turkey from crime, even if that meant accepting the help of the police officer who had once been so intent on bringing her down. She was still unsure if she could trust him; still unsure of his motivations and the degree to which he was motivated by selflessness. He seemed convinced of her future as a killer, a notion that turned her stomach with revulsion, and yet he was willing to help her — or, at least, offer the pretence of doing so in order to further his own agenda. Was he likely to arrest her? She supposed so, although he had had ample opportunity to summon his superiors while she slept at his flat. While that would be difficult enough to explain, he undoubtedly could have fabricated an excuse as to her presence, and scored the largest arrest of his career.

In a way, she realised he was serving as his own undoing. In carrying out his actions of goodwill and selflessness, he was rendering himself complicit in her case. He couldn’t arrest her, not now — not when he had passed on the opportunity to arrest her so many times, and certainly not when he had been indirectly complicit with her acquisition of confidential information on herself. No, if he brought her in, then she would talk, and his career would be finished. Perhaps he hoped that she would not; perhaps he hoped that, should push come to shove, then she would keep her mouth shut as to his involvement. It was a foolish hope, certainly, for Clara knew that if she found herself under questioning at his hand then she would drag him down with her. 

As she counted down to the day on which she would carry out her plan, the only person she could think of was Bonnie. She knew her sister would be profoundly disappointed by her final act of criminality, and she felt a sudden rush of uncertainty in her course of action. Was it the right thing to do? Could she not simply leave things as they were, with her last robbery being that of several weeks prior; underwhelming, but wholly successful? She knew that her desire for infamy would never allow her to leave that as her legacy, and so instead she continued to plan, making the rare decision to check her bank accounts as she did so. What she discovered meant she could retire comfortably after this — _more_ than comfortably, in fact — and she could do so with her twin. They could give to charity; they could own their own home; they would no longer struggle to make ends meet. Everything she had once dreamed of as a naïve student would come true, even if the means were perhaps not what she had once dreamt of. What mattered was that they’d be safe. They’d be happy.

_I miss you._

_I’m sorry._

_Please come home._

_I need to talk to you._

_I really, really need to talk to you, Bon._

_Please can you answer me, I need to know you’re alright._

_Bon?_

_I love you. I hope you’re safe._

Her texts to her sister went unanswered, and so finally Clara called her, trying not to allow her hands to shake as she dialled the familiar number. She wasn’t expecting her sister to pick up, and yet the line connected after barely two rings. 

“What?” her twin snapped, and the malice in her tone felt like a slap in the face. “What do you want now?” 

“I, ah…” Clara swallowed, realising she should attempt to stick to some kind of social script. “I wanted to talk to you. Ask how you are.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“Bon, I’m serious. I’m going out of my mind here, worrying about you.” 

“Well, tough shit. Maybe you should have thought of that before becoming a career criminal and driving me away.” 

“I know. I wanted to say that I’m sorry.” Her voice broke against her will, and the next words she spoke were tremulous. “I’m sorry for everything. I wanted you to know I’m retiring. It’s all going to stop, I promise.” 

“I don’t believe you,” Bonnie said flatly. “I don’t believe you can actually give it up.” 

“I am going to,” Clara told her emphatically. “I really, really am.” 

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Bonnie shot back, bluntly. “Bye, Clara.”

The line disconnected with a _click_ , leaving Clara blinking down at her phone, before looking over at her notepad and the pages of notes she’d painstakingly transcribed. 

It was too late to back out now, she reasoned. One last hurrah, and then Bonnie would see that she _could_ leave it behind her. 

Then Bonnie would understand.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara's last hurrah doesn't go to plan.

Max Capricorn was, by Clara’s reckoning, a deserving target for her last hurrah. An international shipping magnate with a net worth somewhere in the billions, he owned two football teams and a fleet of private jets, and had one of the largest egos Clara had ever had the misfortune to happen upon — and, prior to tonight, she’d only encountered it via YouTube. As she’d watched interviews with the man, she’d felt her skin crawl in response to his slick, smarmy manner; his tongue darting out and wetting his thin lips, lizard-like, every time he paused for breath.

As she sat opposite him now, he did the same action — a quick flick of the tongue, accompanied by a lecherous leer in the direction of her cleavage, and she resisted the urge to shudder in too overtly. He was, like all of her targets, a necessary evil. In this case, an exceptionally _wealthy_ necessary evil.

“You know,” Max purred, reaching for his glass and taking a long sip of wine, keeping his eyes fixed on her over the rim as he did so. “You’re very pretty, Miss…”

He looked at her blankly, having evidently decided earlier in the evening that her name was unworthy of remembering. Billionaires, it seemed, did not abide by the common laws of politeness that the rest of society lived its life by. 

“Lindsay,” she forced herself to say, with a vacuous little laugh and a toss of the hair, as though she didn’t want to scream at him for the sheer rudeness of not bothering to recall even so much as her name. “Joanna Lindsay.” 

“Yes, right,” he looked back down at his food. “You’re very pretty.”

“Thank you.” Clara took a mouthful of her own food, then looked around the restaurant Max had chosen. It was devoid of other diners; the only other people present were the sommelier, stood behind the bar at the other end of the room, and a nervous-looking waitress, who was shifting from foot to foot as she chatted to him, her back to them both in a flagrant disregard for the rules of providing service in fine-dining establishments. “Did you plan this?” 

“Our privacy?” Max looked up at her and smirked, seeming pleased by her slight discomfort at the emptiness of the room and the intimacy it afforded their dinner. “Yes, I did. It’s not every day I bump into a beautiful woman who’d like to have dinner with me. I wanted to be quite, quite sure we would not be interrupted by the hubbub of the dull conversations of others, or the inane background noise of laughter. Such a boring little noise, isn’t it? It grates on my nerves quite unlike anything else.” 

“Really?” Clara asked, feeling her dislike for the man intensify with each passing second. “That’s… understandable.”

“Humans are so vulnerable. We are taught to show our emotions — we are unable to stop ourselves from doing so, hampered as we are with facial expressions. Your face is like a screen, transmitting your thoughts to the world for all and sundry to try and interpret and to make sense of. People can leap to the wrong conclusions and people can leap to the right ones; which would you say is more dangerous?”

“The right conclusions?” she guessed, fighting to keep her expression carefully neutral as she spoke. She was becoming increasingly unsure about the viability of this job; she was used to egotistical men, but not egotistical men who spoke of their own humanity as a defect. His attitude was disconcerting, and she felt a stab of worry as his face took on a pleased little smirk that she seemed to have understood him. 

“Correct. I don’t want anyone to know my true thoughts. I don’t want anyone to know the things I think about doing to women like you, not when I’m in public. No, I’d much rather people misinterpret my gaze; think I was contemplating art or poetry or literature. Not that I’m thinking about what women like you deserve.” 

Clara let out a small, involuntary squeak in response to the overt menace of the statement. “Women like…” 

“Yes, women like you. You think I don’t know what you want? You want my money, don’t you? You’re going to fuck me and then claim paternity on any ensuing brat so that you can get your hands on my billions. I’m not stupid, Joanna. I’ve met money-grabbing sluts before. And I’m going to tell you now, it’s not going to work.” 

“I’m not…” 

“You’re not like that?” He let out a harsh yelp of mirth, his face becoming a mask of fury, and Clara clenched one of her hands in her lap, readying herself for any necessary course of action. “Of course you’re not. You just happened to invite me for dinner and then sit there with the goods on display like some kind of trollop. You’re unbelievable. Women really expect men to respect you when you behave like this? You disgust me.” 

Ever so subtly, Clara reached into her bag with her free hand and extracted her phone as Capricorn continued his tirade. 

“Repulsive, honestly repulsive. You come here with your mouth open and your tits out and you want me to think that you’re an intelligent, respectable woman?”

Without looking down at her phone, Clara typed out a three letter message and pressed _send_. 

“You have to understand-” she began desperately, unsure what to say or do to try to placate the increasingly irate Capricorn, wary as she was of antagonising him further. 

His eyes took on a glazed expression as he settled into his fury all the more comfortably, and he leaned over the table towards her, jabbing his fork in her direction as he spoke. “Don’t you try to patronise _me_. You forget that I’m a man; I’m your intellectual and biological superior.” 

“You’re really not,” she said bluntly, deciding to throw caution to the wind and counter his rudeness with her own. If he was unable to engage in an intellectual debate then she would sink to his level; she doubted any woman had ever dared to do so, and even if she didn’t relieve him of any of his fortune tonight, she would know that she had, at least, served to render him uncomfortable by confronting his beliefs with her own. “You’re not better than me in any way, shape, or form. You might have more money, but you’re rude, crass, classless, and a misogynist.” 

“Is it misogynistic to think women should know their place? To distrust women as being deceitful — which they cannot help, you understand, but poor, pathetic Eve made a poor judgement and committed the Original Sin, and look how that ended for your gender.” 

“Don’t try to quote the Bible at me as proof of women’s inherent subservience and damnation,” Clara shot back. “Not least because, as we both know, women did not in fact evolve from the rib of anyone, nor did we get kicked out of any gardens, so your argument is really quite invalid, isn’t it? And yes, it is misogynistic to deride women for not knowing their place but then categorising any woman with agency as being a danger to your egomania.” 

“So many big words,” his mouth twisted into a cruel smirk. “Did you memorise all that from a book?” 

“Christ, you’re a dickhead,” Clara said in disgust, getting to her feet and slipping her jacket on. She’d encountered enough men like him at university, and she hadn’t bargained on spending her last hurrah listening to a torrent of sexism. “You know what, you can finish the rest of my food. I’d only be deceiving you if I ate it — you know, women shouldn’t consume food because it erases the idealised vision of them as walking, talking sex dolls.” 

“Such impudence,” Capricorn got to his feet, face contorting into a scowl as he realised that she truly meant to humiliate him by leaving. “Why, I ought to have you whipped for such rudeness.” 

“Yeah, urm… you and what army?” Clara let her gaze flick to the waitress and sommelier, both of whom were now staring at them with wide-eyed horror. “They don’t look altogether too willing to get involved. And capital punishment has long since been banned, not that you’d remember that — I don’t think you’ve left your swamp yet, much less reached the 1960s.” 

“You defiant little bi-” he launched his fist at her but she merely caught his hand in her own, twisting it until he squealed in pain and then letting go. 

“I wouldn’t try that again,” she said stonily. “It isn’t very polite.”

“You vile witch,” he protested, drawing his hand back to strike her again, but she stepped back with a sigh, allowing the momentum of his own attempted blow to carry him forwards until he hit the table. “Stop this at once!” 

“So, I should just stand still and let you hit me? Bloody hell, I worry about your ideology.” 

“Excuse me?” a quiet voice interjected from across the room, and Clara looked past Capricorn to take in the sight of the waitress, self-consciously holding a phone in her hands. “Is everything alright? Would you like me to ring for a taxi? Or… anything else?” 

“No, I’m quite alright, thank you,” Clara said with as much magnanimity as possible, offering her a chagrined smile as she heard movement from behind her. “I believe my lift home is here.” 

“ _There_ you are.” 

Clara turned on the spot and took in the sight of John, weaving his way towards them between the empty tables. Relief flooded her system as he reached them, smiling warmly at her and kissing her on the cheek in an unexpectedly tender gesture.

“Sorry I’m late, love. Ready to go?”

“Who…” Capricorn blinked at him. “Who the devil are you?” 

“I’m her father,” John said smoothly, and Clara bit back a giggle. They hadn’t discussed this when she’d informed him of where she would be, for contingency’s sake, but somehow the claim seemed to offer some gravity to the situation at hand, as Capricorn visibly backed down. “And you are?” 

“Max Capricorn. Do you usually let your daughter leave the house dressed like that?” 

John looked from Clara to Capricorn and then back again. “Do you think it’s my rightful place to tell an intelligent, grown woman what she can and can’t wear?” 

“If she’s dressing like a slut, then yes.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” John said flatly, his expression hardening. “Or we will be having words outside.” 

“Oh, do let’s,” Capricorn rubbed his hands together, flicking his gaze to the door with gleeful anticipation. “Come on. Let’s go outside with your slut of a daughter and see what you’re made of. It’s been _such_ a long time since I’ve taken anyone down.”

John sighed, and Clara reached for his hand. “You don’t have to do this,” she hissed, then added, for posterity: “…Dad.” 

He shot her a look of resignation, and she knew at once that he was going to accept Capricorn’s challenge. She groaned inwardly, cursing him and his pride, and suddenly wishing she hadn’t texted him at all. She could have managed Capricorn alone. She could have left without anyone getting hurt. 

“Fine,” he said casually, shrugging and allowing Capricorn to lead the way, Clara trailing behind them both and wondering if there was anything she could do to assuage the situation. As John stepped out into the darkness of the night, Capricorn’s fist connected with his nose before he could do so much as ready himself, and he fell hard onto the pavement, his hands breaking his fall and taking the brunt of his weight as he collapsed towards the flagstones. Clara let out a yelp of horror and fell to her knees beside him, reaching for him instinctively in a bid to ascertain his condition.

“Don’t underestimate me,” Capricorn snarled, spitting onto the concrete beside them. “I was never one for playing by the rules.” 

He turned and headed back inside, leaving the two of them alone in the flickering glow of a nearby streetlamp. Blood was oozing sluggishly from John’s nose and dripping from his chin onto his shirt, and he swiped at it impatiently with a sleeve. 

“Jesus, John,” Clara said softly, fumbling through her bag for tissues and handing a wodge of them to him. “I never wanted you to get knocked out for me.” 

“M’not knocked out,” he said thickly, hauling himself unsteadily into a sitting position and yelping as his left hand came into contact with the pavement. “Shit.” 

“You idiot,” she took his hand in both of hers, turning it over and grimacing as she watched it swell up with slow but damning inevitability. “Honestly, _Dad_. What have I told you about brawling in the street?” 

“He was rude about you,” John pointed out, shifting the tissues away from his nose and poking it gingerly with a fingertip. “Couldn’t let him be rude.” 

“I was handling it.” 

“Well, we’ve both handled it now,” he said with resignation, clicking his nose back into place with an audible _crack_ that made Clara wince. “Could we maybe leave before any of my esteemed colleagues are called?”

“Yes, absolutely,” she got to her feet, helping John up and then folding him into an awkward hug. “Thank you for being all chivalrous, even if I was handling it.” 

“Don’t mention it.” 

“I’m going to mention it. And I’m also going to make you a cuppa when we get back to yours, because I think you very much need one.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Clara try to recover from the aftermath of her last hurrah.

They spent the cab journey back to John’s in silence, unsure what exactly they could or should say to each other.

The ride had been preceded by a minor argument about the best way to cross the city — John had argued in favour of being allowed to drive his own car home, particularly since he would otherwise be forced to leave it where it was overnight; Clara had disputed the assertion that he was in any way fit to drive, and the Tube had been ruled out at once due to the disproportionate amount of attention someone with a bleeding and broken nose would attract. At least, that was what they’d both thought at the time — then again, this _was_ London, and with each passing minute Clara became more convinced that the Tube would have given them a degree of anonymity. Londoners were nothing if not experts in ignoring the uncomfortable. 

She could sense the taxi driver shooting them curious looks in the rear-view mirror, and, when they finally piled out of the car at the end of John’s road, she handed him a substantial tip and offered a sincere thanks for agreeing to take them at all. As the taxi drove away, she turned her attention to John, who was swaying slightly where he stood and clinging onto her arm with a ferocity that anyone else might have found painful, but for Clara it seemed an adequate reminder of her culpability in his injuries. 

“Right,” she said quietly, unsure whether she was trying to reassure John or herself, towing him alongside her as they headed towards his building. “Almost there.” 

“Mm,” he mumbled, allowing himself to be led, docile and obedient, inside and to the lift, and it wasn’t until they stepped out on his floor that she realised she had no idea where the keys were. Before she could ask, he’d swallowed and muttered contritely: “Left trouser pocket.”

“You want me to stick my hand in your trouser pocket?” she quipped, raising an eyebrow at him as she spoke. This was good. This was banter; she could _do_ banter. “My goodness, DCI Smith, if you want that sort of attention, you need only ask.” 

“Ha ha,” he said drily, shooting her a bemused look of chastisement. “If my hand didn’t look like it’d been attached to a bloody bicycle pump, I’d do the honours myself, sweetheart. But given that my left hand looks more akin to the Michelin Man’s…” 

“Alright, alright,” Clara rolled her eyes and reached into his pocket, snagging the keys and sticking them in the lock. Opening the door and stepping inside, she made an immediate beeline for the kitchen as John took unsteady, wobbly steps after her, keeping his good hand on the wall for stability as he went. 

“Tea?” she called over her shoulder, flicking on the kettle and looking around for mugs. Locating two that looked approximately clean, she set them down on the counter and looked around for spoons. “Coffee?” 

“Tea, please,” he said quietly, entering the kitchen behind her and sinking into one of the rickety chairs with visible relief. “Six sugars.” 

“Seems excessive.” 

“So does robbing Max Capricorn,” he narrowed his eyes at her accusatorily, and she felt a stab of guilt. “Why didn’t you tell me it was him? The man’s famous for being stuck in the Dark Ages in his attitudes towards women; there’s infinitely less irritating and less-sexist targets you could have chosen. Including several women, because, you know, equal opportunities and all that.” 

“Well, go hard or go home, that’s my view.”

“Yes, you went hard, and now we’ve gone home. My home. My nose is broken, and possibly my wrist. Happy?” 

“Look, we can all focus on the negatives,” Clara scowled at him, trying not to let her concern appear too overt. Slamming open a drawer, she located a teaspoon and waved it at him as she spoke. “It’s fine. You’re going to be fine.” 

“What, are you a doctor now as well as a criminal?” 

“Oh, shut up, _Dad_.” 

“What the hell was I meant to do? Explain I was the investigating officer on your case and that I’ve been letting you cavort around London robbing people because I’m-” 

“What?” Clara looked at him in surprised confusion, curious as to what the next words would be. “Because you’re what?” 

“It doesn’t matter. My point stands: what the hell was I meant to tell him?” 

“I don’t know,” Clara said more softly. “I just wasn’t expecting that kind of lie.” 

“Would I be such a terrible father?” 

She wrinkled her nose as she realised he was teasing her — familiar territory. “Grumpy and Scottish, but otherwise alright, I suppose.” 

“You flatter me.” 

“I try.” The kettle boiled with a _click_ , and Clara turned away, retrieving two teabags and dumping them into mugs before pouring hot water into each. “How’s the nose?” 

“No longer bleeding.” 

“And the wrist?” 

“A really charming shade of purple.” 

“Lovely,” Clara opened the fridge, grimaced at the contents, and snagged a half-empty bottle of milk out the door, sniffing it warily. “Pain level?” 

“Not that bad.” 

“You’re a really terrible liar.”

“Well, I tried and that’s what counts.” 

“Can you just… actually be honest with me?” she poured milk into each of their mugs, added the requisite six sugars to John’s, and then set his cup down beside him. “Are you in pain?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you want to go to hospital?”

“No.”

“Do you think you _need_ to go to hospital?” 

“Unfortunately, yes.” 

“Are you going to go to hospital if I agree to stay here and not touch anything until you get back?” 

“Why can’t you come-” John began, frowning as he spoke.

“Bad idea,” she interjected, not relishing the prospect of bumping into Martha or Rory or any nurses that might recognise her. “Are you going to go or not?” 

“I suppose so.” 

“Good. Are you interested in me, in a non-professional sense?” 

There was half a beat of silence in the wake of the impulsive question, and, for a moment, she feared her attempt to wrong-foot him may have proved too successful. John seemed stricken, looking down at his lap before blurting: “Yes, alright? Yes, I am.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” he continued to look down, mumbling his words in embarrassment. “You’re very pretty and very interesting and very intelligent and not at all what I expected you to be like.”

“Is that why you’re helping me?”

“It might be part of the reason, yes,” he continued, his cheeks burning a fiery shade of red. “I don’t… you know, I don’t expect you to show any interest in a miserable old git like me, especially not after Danny, but I just…” 

“John,” Clara said kindly, crouching in front of him in a bid to force him to meet her gaze. As their eyes locked, she saw the panic laid bare in his expression, and she felt a pang of sympathy for him — for this confused, unsure man, who had found himself attracted to the most unsuitable person in the entirety of London. “John, do you really think I’d still be here if I wasn’t interested in you, too?” 

“I thought…” he chewed on his lip, his blush deepening. “I thought you might feel guilty.” 

“Well, I do,” she concurred. “But also… I’m worried about you.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you’re a good man, underneath the bravado and the machismo and the sarcasm,” she smiled encouragingly at him. “And you genuinely want to help me, which is more than a lot of people do.” 

“Well, yes, because it’s decent, and above all, it’s kind. It doesn’t matter who you are or what you’ve done, why not just be kind?” 

“You’re a police officer. You’re not supposed to be kind to people like me.” 

“And for a long time, I really did believe that,” he sighed. “But I met you, and you told me your story, and I realised I was wrong. And I’m sorry.” 

“You don’t need to be sorry, John. For now, you just need to worry about finishing that tea, and going to hospital. Please.”

 

* * *

 

John closed his eyes, leaning back against the rock-like hospital pillows and wondering if the doctors would deign to give him any morphine if he asked them nicely. His wrist was throbbing uncomfortably, and an ache had settled over his temples that he strongly suspected to be concussion.

“How you feeling?” 

Something small landed on his chest and he bolted upright with a yelp, taking in the sight of Kate Stewart, who was stood at the end of his bed munching a packet of crisps and affixing him with a distinctly bemused expression. Looking down, he realised that a second packet was what had hit him, and he retrieved it from his lap with his good hand, turning it over and grimacing. 

“Prawn cocktail?” he asked with disgust. “You know I hate prawn cocktail.” 

“You know I hate my officers to not make me aware of things,” Kate retaliated, finishing her own packet and chucking it towards a nearby bin. “And you didn’t think it was pertinent to make me aware that you might be signed off work.” 

“I’m not going to be signed off. I can still do my job with a busted wrist, I just might have to be limited to office work.” 

“I’d still have preferred it if you’d actually bothered to let me know,” she raised an eyebrow in bemusement. “And I might’ve got you a less shitty flavour.” 

“Would you?” 

“Of course not. I like watching you suffer.” 

“Thanks. Who called you?” 

“My wife works here, remember?”

He blinked a couple of times before his brain provided the necessary information. He’d not been at the wedding, but he’d seen enough photos of the two of them, and Kate never ceased to stop talking about her wife. It’d be irritating if it wasn’t so endearing, not that he planned on letting her know that. “Elle?” 

“Yeah. She thought it was worth letting me know that one of my officers had been admitted in a right state.” 

“Isn’t that in violation of patient-doctor confidentiality?” 

“You’re not her patient, but yes, technically. Do you fancy snitching, John?” 

“Not really, no,” he admitted, raising his eyebrows at her mischievously. “Way too scared of you for that.” 

Kate grinned at him. “That’s a good chap. How are you feeling?” 

“About as great as I feel.” 

“Please. We both know you’ve had worse. Quit your whining.” 

“God, you’re annoying.” 

Kate chuckled. “I know,” she took a step closer to his bed, still smiling jovially as she perched on the end of the duvet. “So, I found out something interesting tonight.” 

“Oh?” John felt his blood freeze in his veins in anticipation of what she was about to say. “What was that?” 

“Well,” Kate said, conversationally. “I found out that Max Capricorn punched a tall Scottish guy in the face outside a _very_ exclusive restaurant.”

“Did he now?” 

“That tall Scottish guy had grey hair and was with his daughter, who was brunette and well-dressed and seemed very… intensely interested in Capricorn.” 

“Oh?” John was surprised Kate couldn’t hear his heart racing, and he thanked god the doctors hadn’t seen fit to hook him up to any monitors. “So? Women aren’t allowed to go on dates now?” 

“Does it seem strange to you that on the night that Max Capricorn punches a grey-haired Scottish man in the face, a grey-haired Scottish man with a broken nose and query broken wrist checks himself into A&E?” 

“Not… really.” 

“You don’t have a daughter, John.” 

“No, I don’t,” he said truthfully, grateful to be back on safe conversational ground now. “You’re right.” 

“Are you going to tell me how you broke your nose?” 

“I walked into a lamppost while trying to work out how to send a text on that bloody smartphone you insisted I start using.” 

“Right,” she folded her arms and affixed him with a steely glare. “I hope that’s true, John, I really do. For your sake, and for mine…” 

“Of course it’s-” 

“Because if I find out that you’ve been conspiring with the Impossible Girl, I will _end_ your career. You might be my friend, but you’re also one of my team, and you won’t receive preferential treatment. Do you understand me?” 

“Yes,” John managed, nodding as much as he was able. “Yes, I very much understand you.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns home from the hospital to a surprise...

When John arrived home from hospital, he was not expecting much. He was unsure whether Clara Oswald would still even be at the flat — despite her assertion that she wanted to give up her life of crime, niggling doubts remained as to whether or not she could be trusted — and he’d told himself that, even if she was still there, at best she’d be asleep or, at worst, she’d be piling his measly worldly possessions into a bag to sell.

If there was one thing he had not expected, it was to cross the threshold into an immaculately tidy flat that smelled strongly of cleaning products — Did he even _own_ any? He didn’t recall buying them, but he might have shoved some in the depths of a box when he left Glasgow — and looked decidedly tidier than it had when he left. The heap of shoes beside the front door were now neatly arranged, the floor appeared to have been hoovered, and — upon sticking his head into the lounge — the layer of dust that had previously covered all available surfaces appeared to have vanished. 

Depositing his keys back in the hall and moving further into the flat, he was somewhat stupefied to find Clara Oswald, larcenist extraordinaire, with her head deep inside his fridge, scrubbing at… well, he didn’t know what, exactly, but it was undoubtedly something that had caused her great personal offence if the vigour of her scouring was anything to go by. She was humming to herself under her breath as she worked, and there was a black bin liner of something he suspected to be mouldering food beside her. 

“Urm,” he began uncertainly, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen and watching as she yelped in shock, almost smacking her head on the top of the fridge as she jumped back from it with a mortified expression. It was then that he realised she had appropriated one of his T-shirts, which descended almost all the way to her knees, and he tried not to grin at how comically tiny the garment made her look. “You know,” he said, “I didn’t expect the full Seven Dwarfs service. If I’d known you were going to do all of this, I’d have picked up some food on the way home. You must be starving; those bloody Michelin-starred restaurants and their tiny portions aren’t designed to sustain a cleaning spree.” 

Clara’s cheeks burned, and she dropped her gaze to the floor, twisting the cloth she was holding with determined concentration to avoid looking at him. “I, urm,” she mumbled. “You were ages, and the place needed some love. I found some really bloody awful levels of dust in your lounge — it’s a wonder you haven’t died of allergies — and then I felt too stressed by the general ick to leave it like that, and one thing kind of… led to another. Might have pissed the neighbours off with the hoover; sorry about that.” 

“What did my fridge ever do to you?” 

“Contain large amounts of mouldy food,” she looked up at him then, closing the fridge door before he could look inside for any lingering evidence and then wrinkling her nose. “Seriously, do you even cook? Warm things up slightly? Make a sandwich?” 

“The answer to all three is: when I remember, when I can be bothered, and when I’m home. So, not often, not ever, and also not ever.” 

“But-” 

“There’s a lot to be said for takeaways.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why are you wearing my clothes?” 

“OK, _you_ try cleaning in a skin-tight dress. Besides,” she looked down at the T-shirt, “this looked very well-loved. I figured you wouldn’t object to it being a little more well-loved by me.” 

“It’s actually one of my favourites,” he teased, and a stricken look passed over her face at once. To his considerable surprise, she immediately took hold of the hem and started to peel it over her head, and he yelped in shock as Clara exposed her matching set of red lingerie to him, immediately — but regretfully — starting to protest. “Hey! I was joking, keep it on.” 

“Is the sight of my underwear that offensive?” Clara tugged the T-shirt back down, tipping him a wink that made his cheeks flush. “Fine, I’ll keep it on, it’s cosy. I was going to try a pair of joggers, but they seemed preposterously long, even for a person of normal height. What are you, a beanpole?” 

“You’ve got me pegged. I secretly have legs that are twenty feet long under these trousers. Have to coil them up like springs so no one suspects.” 

She laughed then, actually laughed, and it was such a pleasant sound that he wanted to make her do it again. Instead, her gaze fell on his left wrist, and she looked suddenly, abruptly guilty. “Your wrist! I’m so sorry, here’s me waffling away… what did the hospital say?”

“It’s fractured,” he pulled back his sleeve, exposing the ugly white cast they had applied an hour earlier. They’d neglected to offer him anything stronger than paracetamol, the effects of which were waning, and his wrist was beginning to throb uncomfortably. “From where I fell. It was displaced; there was some readjusting involved.” 

Clara let out a sound of horrified disgust, shuddering at the mere thought. “Ouch.” 

“Yes, ouch. But everything is back in place now and back in business.” 

“How the hell are you going to be able to do your job with a broken wrist? Ask criminals nicely to stand still while you put handcuffs on them one-handed?” 

“Something like that,” his mouth twisted into a grin. “Desk duty, probably. Kate was gunning for me to be signed off, but I’ll go mad just sat around here like a lemon. Not my thing at all.” 

“Kate?” 

“My boss?”

“I know, but… how did she…” 

“The waitress must have talked, or the sommelier. I imagine there’s big money involved in exposing the secrets of the rich and famous; big enough to outweigh the risk of losing your job. Anyway, Kate had heard word that Capricorn had got into a scuffle with someone matching my description, and she’d heard I was in hospital with similar injuries.” 

“How? What is she, omnipresent? Omniscient? Just stalking you?” 

“She’s married to one of the doctors.” 

“Oh,” Clara wrinkled her nose at the implication. “That’s a bit unprofessional of him, isn’t it? To tell her that you’d been admitted?” 

“It was very unprofessional of _her_ to tell Kate, yes, but I suppose she was worried about me. Anyway, Kate came in all guns blazing — metaphorically speaking — and tried to get out of me what happened.” 

“And you said…?”

“That I walked into a lamppost." 

“God, you’re a shit liar. Did she actually buy that?” 

“She sort of seemed to, and what else was I meant to say?!” John protested, flinging both hands into the air reflexively and then yelping in pain, grasping his injured wrist with his good hand and sucking a breath in through gritted teeth. Clara took half a step forwards, her face a mask of concern, but he waved her away impatiently. “Anything involving other people would have elicited a search for a suspect who _doesn’t exist_ , so I had to improvise!”

“This is true,” Clara grimaced wearily. “What did she make of the excuse?” 

“Well, she’s worried that I’m conspiring with you.” 

“Wow, for a police officer, she’s not actually all that stupid.” 

“Hey!” he objected, unable to stop himself from adopting a petulant scowl. “I’m a police officer and I’m not stupid.” 

“Says the man who got into a fight and broke both his nose _and_ wrist. You aren’t exactly the poster boy for police intelligence.” 

“Look, the issue here is that she suspects I’m working with you.” 

“She’s not wrong, is she?” Clara smirked, but he could tell there was an underlying vulnerability that she was trying to mask with the gesture. The look in her eyes was enough to convey her fear to him — she seemed cornered and uncertain, as though caught between the urges to fight or flight.

“No, she’s not wrong,” John said softly. “Except that she thinks I’m ‘conspiring’ with you, which sounds to me like I’m joining you in your schemes. Only I’m not — I’m working with you in order to rehabilitate you, which isn’t ‘conspiring’ about anything. Far from it.”

“You really don’t have to do this, John,” Clara said with a shrug, aiming for casual nonchalance, but he knew she must be terrified that he was on the verge of backing out of their agreement. “If it’s going to destroy your life… you really aren’t obliged to help someone like me.” 

“I said I’d help you, didn’t I?” he assured her. “I gave you my word. And that to me is binding.” 

“Why? I don’t mean anything to you. You don’t know me. You just think I’m going to go psycho like this other woman did and kill someone, and I’m not.” 

“Clara-” 

“You don’t owe me anything, and besides, I should probably go. My housemates will probably be wondering why I’m not back, and they’ll be worrying.” 

“Clara, it’s three in the morning, and you’re wearing a T-shirt and lace pants. I’m not letting you walk around London in the wee hours in that.” 

“I can change back into my dress.” 

“Or that, as a matter of fact,” he said bluntly, then added, in a rush: “Besides, I don’t want you to go.” 

She blinked at him, disconcerted by the admission. He had to admit that he hadn’t been expecting to speak the words aloud, and yet somehow they had wrong-footed him and slipped past his mental filter, entering existence as he voiced them to Clara. Still, he would have to make the best of it now, and his thoughts immediately began clamouring for some explanation as to what he meant. 

“Why?” she asked, brow furrowed as she visibly struggled to understand his motives. “Why not?” 

“Because…” he considered lying; considered saying he needed her to look after him, or to help him with things now that his wrist was in plaster. “Because I want to get to know more about you, and also because if you’re here, I can actually help you to change and go cold turkey. I can’t do that when you’re back at yours.” 

“What, so I need supervising? Like a child?” 

“That’s not what I said, Clara.” 

“It’s what you meant.”

“No,” he said with a sigh. “No, it’s not. Don’t go into your defensive mode; don’t get all spiky with me. I just… I just want you to stay.” 

There was a long pause, and then her face changed — her expression softened, and her eyes grew wide with understanding. “John, are you lonely?” 

“No,” he scoffed, dropping his gaze to the floor, but he felt his cheeks burn treacherously. “Maybe. Sometimes. A little bit.” 

“So, why didn’t you just say that?” 

“Because it’s not exactly very… I don’t know, very rock and roll, is it?”

“Nor are you,” she teased, and he looked back at her then and returned her shy smile. “I’ll stay, if you really want me to. I mean, I think you’re going to need me to — you can’t do much with your wrist in bloody plaster. Not that you cook, but I dread to think what weeks of dirty cutlery is going to end up smelling like.” 

“I don’t need you to… I don’t know, be all Cinderella or anything.” 

“I know, but I can make sure you don’t starve to death or die of food poisoning, and you can make sure I don’t get the urge to rob anyone. Seems like a fair deal, no?” 

“I suppose,” John grinned, then immediately frowned as something Clara had said minutes earlier registered. “What about your housemates, though? Won’t they miss you?”

“Not as long as I’m paying rent,” she shrugged. “I’ll go and get a bag of stuff; say I’m staying with a friend who’s unwell.” 

“And they won’t find that suspicious?”

“They haven’t suspected any of the far more suspicious things I’ve done in the past,” she reminded him. “Such as coming home with a gash in my leg. So, no, they won’t.” 

“Are you going to go back now?” he asked, still consumed with worry at the thought of her crossing the city alone in the small hours. He knew it was an irrational concern, and yet he couldn’t help but worry about her safety. “Because…” 

“No, John,” she said softly, crossing the room to him and taking his good hand in her own. She squeezed it gently before continuing: “I’m not going to go now. I’ll head back in the morning to pick some things up, but I’m not leaving right now, no.” 

“Oh,” he felt a surge of relief, and flashed her a grateful smile, trying to ignore an overwhelming desire to pull her into a hug. “Well, that’s good. Are you going to nick anything this time?” 

“Only more of your T-shirts,” she stuck her tongue out at him. “And maybe a flannel to use tonight, unless you want to be scrubbing makeup off your sofa cushions.” 

“Pillows,” he corrected sternly. “You’re taking the bed this time. I insist.”

“You have a broken wrist,” she reminded him, in a voice he recognised her using on her students. “And a broken nose. You are sleeping in the damn bed. Don’t argue.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara chances a trip home, and faces some uncomfortable questions.

The night — what remained of it, by the time John had sloped off to bed, grumbling under his breath as he did so — had passed in a blur, and Clara now had the singular discomfort of functioning without having had enough sleep. The world around her felt oddly dull and disconnected from her senses, as though she was wrapped in a layer of cellophane, and she had to keep blinking hard to avoid her eyes falling closed and her chin drooping to her chest as sleep fought to reclaim her. She’d downed a cup of terrible coffee at John’s — Resolution One upon her return was to buy him some decent stuff, or maybe a coffee maker — that had done little to alleviate the odd, draggy feeling that clung to her as she sat on the Tube, only dimly aware that people were staring at her. 

She was dressed — out of sheer necessity — in her outfit from the previous evening’s date, which was determinedly out-of-place among the brightly coloured T-shirts of the weekend tourists that surrounded her, all of whom were trying to pretend they were not staring at her with blatant judgement. If she’d had more energy, she might have considered flipping them off or making a scathing comment, but as it was she simply sighed and dropped her gaze to her lap, wishing she’d picked up a copy of the _Metro_ for the sake of having something to look at. She’d grab a copy on the way back and take it back to John’s — he seemed the sort to be keen on crosswords, and, while she found the _Metro_ ’s offering to never be particularly challenging, it would still keep him distracted from the discomfort caused by his nose and wrist for an hour or so.

Exiting the Tube at her usual stop, she half-climbed, half-staggered up the escalators, still battling sleep, before emerging into the daylight and setting off for home. There was less judgement here — Shoreditch was far more accustomed to women in impractical and unsuitable clothing at all hours of the day, and for that she was blissfully grateful as she trudged home, wishing to god she hadn’t opted to wear high heels the night before.

By the time she reached the house, she was cheered by the impending thought of a sit down and another cup of coffee, but, as she unlocked the front door and crossed the threshold, she sensed that something was… different. She sidled into the hall uncertainly, kicking off her shoes and letting out a small sigh of relief as she did so, and it was then that Martha stepped out of the lounge with an oddly composed expression.

“Good, you’re back,” Martha began, and Clara felt an immediate surge of panic. “We were getting worried.”

“No need for that,” Clara assured her, flashing her the brightest smile she could manage while trying to keep her breathing level. “I had a great evening.” 

“Patently,” Martha told her. “Can you come here a second?” 

“Urm,” Clara swallowed, her terror beginning to escalate. Had the police been round? Had something happened to Bonnie? “Sure.” 

She followed Martha into the lounge, finding Amy already sat on one sofa as Martha sank down onto the other. 

“What is this?” Clara asked, looking between the two of them and trying to resist the urge to flee from the room. “What’s going on?” 

“Sit,” Amy encouraged, patting the seat beside her, and after a second’s hesitation, Clara did, twisting her hands together in her lap and trying not to hyperventilate. “We need to talk to you.” 

“About?” 

“Whatever the hell is going on with you. You seem to take us for complete idiots, Clara, and we’re not,” Martha told her bluntly. “We can tell something is going on with you. It’s been going on for months — you’ve been keeping weird hours, coming home with strange injuries, and then this huge falling out with Bonnie happens. Oh yeah, we heard. What’s going on? What aren’t you telling us?”

“Nothing’s going on,” Clara lied, shrugging her shoulders and attempting to look nonchalant. “You try teaching taekwondo to a bunch of teenagers and you’ll end up with strange injuries, too. Some of them are far too enthusiastic about the prospect of kicking the living daylights out of a teacher, which is just unfair, really — most of them are bigger than-” 

“Stop trying to change the subject,” Amy interrupted. 

“I’m not. I’m explaining myself.” 

“Well, fine, even if we believe that, which we _don’t_ , how do you explain the weird hours?” Amy asked in an accusatory tone. “And as for asking me to lie to the police for you…” 

“You were game! You thought it was a laugh!” 

“Yes, I did at the time! But now I’m worried I’ve got myself into something I don’t understand, and I’m worried what the ramifications are going to be. How do I know I’m not about to find myself in serious trouble? You told me you were drinking wine on Primrose Hill that night, and yet you came home barely able to walk, with blood all over your leg. What, you think I’m going to believe that the poshos up there turned on you and stabbed you in the leg with their Harrods knife sets? You think I’m going to buy some bullshit story about falling on glass, or whatever it is you’re about to try and spout at me?” 

“Clara, we’re concerned about you,” Martha added, in a somewhat gentler tone. “We were worried anyway, but then Bonnie left, and it’s like… I don’t know, it’s like you’ve become a ghost.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“No, you’re not. What happened between the two of you? Why did she leave? Where did she go?” 

“I don’t know, alright?” Clara confessed, her voice shaking as their looks became pitying, even Amy. “I don’t know where she is, other than she’s with friends.” 

“What the hell _happened_ with you two?” Amy pressed. “You’re twins, you’re supposed to-”

“I _know_!” Clara all but shouted, then caught their hurt looks and added, guiltily: “God knows, I know she should be here, but she isn’t. I know I messed up, and I know I need to fix things, and I’m trying, alright? God, I’m trying, but it’s not easy when I don’t know where she is and she won’t speak to me. Alright? She won’t speak to me. She doesn’t want me to contact her.” 

“I…” Martha blinked hard as she processed this information. “Clara, I’m sorry, but whatever the hell is going on, it must be fixable? Surely?” 

“How can I fix it when I don’t even know where she is? How can I fix it when I can’t even get hold of her to try? She doesn’t want to hear from me. She doesn’t… I don’t know, she doesn’t want to be a twin anymore.”

“I…” Amy began, but Clara shook her head sadly, not wanting to discuss the matter any further. 

“I’m only here to pick some things up,” she mumbled, tears prickling at her eyes. “One of my friends has had an accident, so I’m going to stay with them for a little bit to help out — can’t have them living off takeaways for weeks, or not doing any cleaning.” 

“But… what about the rent?” Martha asked, frowning. “I mean, not to sound callous or anything, but…”

“You don’t,” Clara assured her quickly. “Of course, I’ll still pay the rent, and any bills. I’ll probably drop in and out to get things. Just right now, my friend needs me.” 

“Well,” Amy seemed to resign herself to the strangeness of the situation. “Take good care of your friend, then.” 

“I’ll try,” Clara got to her feet. “And I’m trying, with Bonnie, I really am. I just don’t know what else to do.”

Martha and Amy nodded in unison, and Clara sighed before heading upstairs, fishing out a holdall from under her bed and starting to chuck assorted clothes and necessities into it. Of course, she wanted her sister back. Of course, she wanted to fix things. But she couldn’t do that if Bonnie wasn’t willing to give her a chance, and at present… she wasn’t. Clara supposed she had it coming — she’d spent years taking her twin for granted, and now she was paying the price. But she’d learned her lesson, and she was willing to change, only now she had no way to communicate that to her absent sister. She’d tried, certainly, but actions spoke louder than words, so she supposed that would be what she had to do. 

Looking around the room as she stowed her laptop in the top of the bag, she reached for one of the photos pinned to her noticeboard. It showed her and Bonnie in happier times with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders as they grinned into the camera, Hyde Park splayed out behind them in all its spring glory. With a sad smile, Clara took it down and added it to the bag, then zipped it up and sank down onto the bed beside it. 

She knew she wasn’t leaving this house permanently, and yet still it felt strange to be collecting her things and readying herself to go elsewhere. So much of who she was and the person she had become was tied intrinsically to this place, and she felt a rush of sadness as she looked around at the room that constituted her own small piece of privacy and freedom.

“Stop it, Oswald,” she mumbled to herself after several minutes of feeling maudlin and sentimental, getting to her feet and stripping out of her dress from the evening before, hunting through her drawers for a more suitable outfit. Once she was dressed, she slung the holdall over one shoulder, her work satchel over the other, and headed downstairs with the widest, sunniest smile she could muster. She wouldn’t let her housemates see her cry — they’d seen enough of that to last a lifetime. 

“Well,” she said brightly to Amy and Martha. “I’m off. Give my love to Rory, won’t you?” 

“I will,” Amy offered her a sad little smile, and Clara realised that this was precisely as difficult for them as it was for her. The thought was oddly disconcerting, as she realised that she wasn’t as alone as she’d felt over the past few months. “He’ll be sorry to have missed you, but… work.” 

“I know,” Clara reassured her. “If you need me, I’m just a text away, alright?” 

“Take care of yourself,” Martha said fiercely, getting to her feet and enfolding Clara in a tight hug. “Alright?”

“Will do,” Clara promised, hugging Amy and then taking a deep breath. “See you both soon.” 

She turned and headed out of the house before her eyes could fill with tears, setting off towards the Underground with her head held high. This was Step One. Step One of stopping it all, and reconciling with Bonnie. 

She just hadn’t expected Step One to make her feel quite so torn.

 

* * *

 

When she arrived back at John’s, she was concerned to find that he was not where she’d anticipated him being — tucked up on the sofa with a warm drink. Dropping her bags onto the lounge floor and setting the _Metro_ down on the coffee table, she ducked out of the room and into the kitchen, where she was perplexed to find him struggling with a saucepan and a tin of soup. 

“Hey,” she said in her best teacher voice, and he yelped in shock, almost dropping the tin opener he had been wielding in his good hand like an offensive weapon. “What’s this, then?”

“I…” he mumbled, trying to regain his composure and gesturing to her with the tin opener. “Was trying to make myself some lunch, but apparently you need two hands to work this bloody thing.” 

“Yes, and I could have done it for you if you’d been patient,” she chided, taking the offending gadget from him. “I thought you were meant to be resting.”

“Warming up soup doesn’t count as doing anything strenuous.”

“Really? Because you look stressed.” 

“Yeah, because my wrist hurts and my nose hurts and I’m apparently an incompetent fool who needs his hand held to even bloody prepare soup.” 

“Now, don’t get all self-loathing on me.” 

“Well,” he muttered sourly as she finally figured out how to use the tin opener and removed the offending lid. “It’s true, I’m bloody useless.” 

“No, you’re not. You’re injured, so you’re allowed to be a little bit rubbish at doing things for yourself. That’s why I’m here.” 

“I thought you were here to rehabilitate yourself. Well, more specifically, I thought I was going to rehabilitate you.” 

“That, too,” Clara tipped the tin of soup into the pan and then reached for a wooden spoon to stir it with, switching on the hob and affixing John with a fond smile. “Go and sit down, and I’ll bring it in. Do you want toast with it?” 

He dithered for a moment, then nodded before affixing her with an odd expression. 

“What?” she asked, smoothing her hair down and trying not to feel self-conscious. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing’s wrong,” he assured her, then said in a rush: “I was worried you weren’t going to come back.” 

“Of course I came back,” she smiled. “There’s a Glaswegian DCI who needs me, just as much I need him.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a desperate bid to discourage Clara from her criminal ways, John takes drastic action.

“What’re you doing?” John asked with idle curiosity a week or so later, leaning down and peering at her phone screen over her shoulder. 

“Uh…” she exited Safari as quickly as she was able, locking the screen and dropping the offending item of technology in her lap with as innocent an expression as she could manage. “Nothing, why?”

“That didn’t look like nothing. And you look guilty as sin.” 

“Do I?” 

“Yes, you do,” he held out his good hand expectantly in a gesture she had repeated hundreds of times at Coal Hill. “Give me the phone.” 

“No.” 

“Clara, give me the phone.” 

“No!” 

“So, tell me what you were doing.” 

“Shan’t.” 

“Give me the goddamn phone,” he snapped and, with reluctance, Clara handed it over. John stared at the passcode screen that appeared when he tried to activate it. “Unlock it.” 

She reached over and tapped in the code, knowing he was memorising the digits as she did so, and then watched as he opened Safari and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

“Why were you looking up Lady Cassandra O’Brien?”

“Idle curiosity.” 

He fell silent, scrolling through the top hits on Google, and his eyes narrowed in displeasure. She felt her heart sink as his face grew increasingly thunderous with each result he clicked on, until he locked the device and met her gaze. The anger that burned there was uncomfortable, but Clara refused to look away, raising her chin defiantly. 

“She’s in London. You were thinking about _it_ , weren’t you?” 

“Thinking about what?” Clara bluffed, tossing her hair. “I wasn’t thinking about anything.” 

“You were thinking about targeting Lady Cassandra O’Brien,” he scowled at her, and she swallowed, feeling her cheeks burn treacherously scarlet under his hard stare. “Clara, what did we agree?” 

“That I would go cold turkey from being bad.” 

“So, what do you call this?” 

“Lady O’Brien is a deeply odious woman, John! She exploits people; she’s had a string of younger lovers against Lord O’Brien’s wishes, _and_ he’s unwell, so that’s doubly shitty given that, you know, he’s dying of cancer while she’s cavorting around London with these weird indie model types who are young enough to be her children. Plus, she has a tendency to get them into all kinds of deeply unhealthy things.” 

“Such as?” 

“Drugs. The champagne lifestyle. Debt. That kind of thing.” Clara grimaced as she recalled some of the darker corners of the Internet she had perused while doing her research. “Then she abandons them when she gets bored, leaving them totally in the lurch. The last one — some weird bloke called Chip Something-or-Other — ended up killing himself, but she’s denied all knowledge of even so much as having met him, despite the consistent tabloid coverage of their ‘dates.’ She’s a shitty person, John.” 

“What, so you’re going to pose as a man?” John asked in a bemused tone, arching an eyebrow sceptically.

“John, not every woman in the entire world is heterosexual. God knows I’m not, and, odiously creepy though she is, nor is Lady O’Brien.” 

“So, you’re going to… what? Meet her at an exclusive club and take coke with her, or whatever drug it is that rich people enjoy these days? Go shooting on her country estate? Go to some kind of upmarket lap-dancing club?” 

“God, no,” Clara could hardly hide her disgust at the suggestions. “I was going to go to one of the posh dive bars she enjoys so much and get her absolutely hammered.” 

“Isn’t ‘posh dive bar’ an oxymoron?” 

“A bit,” Clara admitted with a grin. “It’s all like, artfully distressed designer furniture and thousand-pound fluorescent lighting that _looks_ like it’s from your school canteen, circa 1960, but is actually designed by some Swedish bloke with a name you can’t pronounce.” 

“And you’d know this because…” 

“I get around,” Clara shrugged, then blushed again. “Metaphorically speaking, of course.” 

“Of course,” John said drily, and Clara thumped him lightly on his good arm. “Hey! That’s assaulting a police officer, that is!” 

“Oh, be quiet,” she rolled her eyes fondly. “Or I’ll leave you to make your own cup of tea again, because that went _so_ well for you last time.” 

“Shut up,” John muttered, suitably chastised by the evocation of his last incident with a mug of tea, which had ended with smashed china and a puddle of spilt milk. “You’re not to go near Lady O’Brien.” 

“But I want to,” Clara protested, reaching for her phone and then scowling as John held it out of reach. She knew she sounded like a petulant child, but she didn’t care. “She deserves it.” 

“Clara, you’re really not understanding the concept of ‘going cold turkey,’ are you?”

“She _really_ deserves it, John. She needs a comeuppance.”

“What, so would it be OK for an alcoholic to just have one glass of whiskey if it was  _really good_ whiskey? Because they deserved it?”

“No,” she muttered sourly. “It wouldn’t.”

“So, why is it OK for you to want to rob Lady O’Brien?” 

“Stop being difficult.” 

“I’m not being difficult, Clara!” John said in exasperation, flinging his good arm skyward. “You’re here to stop all this! You’re here to learn that there is another way, and it doesn’t involve robbing people! You’re here to try to stop this ridiculous ongoing criminality, because there is a better way and you need to learn how to follow that way or else you’re going to end up in prison. You’re here to try to stop taking stupid risks, and stop chasing danger. You’re here because I thought, probably totally naively, that you actually _wanted_ to stop, and you wanted to get out of that life. I guess I was wrong.”

“I… you don’t…”

“No, don’t try to make excuses for yourself, Clara,” John thundered as he began to pace the room. “If you’re not committed to this — if you’re not committed to stopping what you’re doing — then just get out. Alright? Just get out. Because I’m not going to waste my time trying to help you if that isn’t what you want, and you aren’t going to commit to that. I’m not going to waste my time trying to stop you from being sent to prison if that’s where you really, honestly, dearly want to end up. If you want to waste the best years of your life rotting in a cell, then sure. Go ahead. Go ahead and rob Lady O’Brien. See if I damn well care. Because if you’re that bloody stupid, and that bloody desirous to take risks, then I don’t want anything more to do with you. In fact, hold your hands out. Might as well cuff you and take you down the station now.” 

There was a beat of silence, and then Clara said quietly, her tone pitched between defiance and outright challenge: “You couldn’t cuff me with your wrist in plaster.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” he shot back at once. “I can damn well try, and if I have to slam you against a wall and break my wrist again in the process, I don’t care — I’ll do it.” 

“You won’t do it, John. You have too much to lose if I talk — and you have no idea if I would or wouldn’t, do you? You still don’t completely trust me, not yet, so if you tried to take me in then I could just drag you down with me. Mutually assured destruction. Police officers don’t tend to do so well on the inside, so I’ve heard.” 

There was another lull in which neither of them spoke and neither of them moved — eyes locked, weighing up the other. 

John sprang into action before she could stop him, removing his damaged wrist from its sling and reaching into his back pocket with it. With his good hand he reached across the sofa and took hold of her hands, pulling her to her feet and shoving her against the wall of the living room in one surprisingly fluid motion, knocking the breath out of her as her body hit the paintwork. Panic took root in her chest as he spun her so that her cheek was pressed against the wall, and she felt cold metal biting into her wrists as he snapped a pair of cuffs onto her. A small part of her brain wondered why exactly he’d been carrying them around, but a larger part of her was beginning to dissolve into terrified hysteria as he pressed an arm across her shoulders, keeping her in place.

“Clara Oswald, I am arresting you on suspicion of burglary, theft, aggravated assault, assaulting a police officer, offences against multiple persons by administering noxious substances, and vandalism. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” 

Clara couldn’t help it. She began to cry — loud, noisy sobs that shook her entire body as she wailed, closing her eyes and starting to tremble with terror. 

“Please,” she mumbled desperately, choking and gasping for breath as she began to hyperventilate. “Please, John, please, don’t… don’t do this, please… I’m begging you… I’m sorry, please, god, please, I’m sorry… I can stop… I’ll stop, I swear to god I’ll stop, just please… don’t do this, I’m begging you… I’ll do anything, I’ll do whatever you want… I won’t go near Lady O’Brien, I won’t go near anyone… p-please… d-don’t do this… I c-can’t… I’m s-sorry, John, p-please…” 

“Shut up,” he said curtly, taking hold of the handcuffs and yanking on them sharply, dragging her back from the wall. “And you’ll address me as DCI Smith.” 

“I’m s-sorry… p-please…” 

“Shut up,” he said again, seizing her by the elbow and dragging her out to the hall. “Or I will really lose my patience with you.” 

She thought, for one wild moment, about attacking him. She might be cuffed, but she had the advantage — two uninjured arms, and youth on her side. She could kick him, or use her body weight to overpower him and then try to get out of the flat, and her eyes flicked to the front door in anticipation. 

“Don’t even think about it,” John growled, as though reading her mind. “You won’t be able to so much as open the door as you are, and if you try to make a run for it out there then everyone will be able to see your guilt. No one will help you. No one will dare. And think how ashamed it would make Bonnie to know that her sister had resisted arrest and fled like a coward. Another charge to go on the charge sheet, and it’s already standing at several pages long as-is.” 

“J-John…” 

“DCI Smith. Shut your damn mouth.” 

He yanked open the front door and shoved her outside, snatching up his car keys before he stepped out onto the landing. Taking hold of her elbow tightly — _too_ tightly; tightly enough to hurt — he slammed the front door behind them and dragged her along beside him as he strode towards the stairs, his face set with grim, impassive determination as she continued to sob. 

Under any other circumstances, Clara would be ashamed to be seen like this — sobbing and inconsolable, her face wet with tears as she wailed desperately. The darkness of the night provided some concealment to her shame, but she still felt a burning sense of humiliation as John dragged her towards his car. The closer they drew to the vehicle, the more she began to struggle, her instincts kicking in, and it wasn’t until John slammed her unceremoniously against the side of the car that she was stunned into immobility. 

“Stop it,” he snapped. “Or so help me god, I will call out support, and they will bring a van, and you’ll be loaded in the back like a dog.” 

“P-please,” she begged, feeling herself go obediently limp as he opened the back door of the car and manhandled her inside, before leaning over her and fumbling awkwardly, uncomfortably, with her seatbelt for several seconds before managing to clip it shut with a grunt of pain. “DCI Smith, I’m begging you…” 

“Shut up,” he said gruffly, straightening up and slamming her door shut. This was a stark contrast to her previous trip in the vehicle — she thought back to that journey with desperate longing; her place in the passenger seat, and her wrists unbound.

John clambered into the driver’s seat and turned his key in the ignition, the engine roaring into life as he fumbled with his own seatbelt before reaching overhead and flicking a concealed switch. Blue lights flickered into life at the periphery of Clara’s vision, and the last thing she could concretely recall was John placing his hands on the wheel, and her whispering, despite it all: “John, p-please… you’re not safe to be driv…”


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Has John's decision solved the problem? Or made things dramatically worse?

“Clara?”

The voice was soft, and sounded oddly concerned. Why? 

“Clara?”

Her eyes flickered open to a blinding white light that hurt her head. She let out a whimper of discomfort and screwed them shut again, recoiling from the brightness and trying to raise her hands to shield her face, only to find them bound uncomfortably tightly together.

The memories returned in a crashing wave: John’s anger, and his insistence he could and should arrest her, followed by her petulant, taunting defiance. The moment he had snapped, and all that came after — the handcuffs, and being slammed unceremoniously into a wall, and her desperate begging. Her irrational concern about him driving anywhere, and then… well, she must have passed out. Which meant that this was… 

“Clara?” the voice said again, and somewhere in her consciousness she realised it was dimly familiar. “Shit, hang on.” 

There was a soft _click_ and the handcuffs fell away from her wrists. She kept her hands where they were, held obediently at an uncomfortable angle in front of her, anticipating a new pair to be locked around them at any moment. This must be the station, which meant that John would want his cuffs back and they would clap her in a new set. She took a shaky breath and tried to prepare herself for the renewed feeling of icy metal against her skin, but instead a pair of warm hands encircled her wrists, rubbing gently.

Confused, she chanced opening her eyes again. The light was still too bright, but she blinked hard until her vision cleared and was disconcerted to find that she was not in a police station at all. She appeared to still be in the back of the car, her door open and John crouched beside her, gently massaging her wrists with something akin to tenderness. 

The situation was so jarring with what she had experienced seconds — minutes? hours? — before that she flinched away from him at once, pulling her hands away from his and trying to recoil as much as was physically possible. Finding herself constrained claustrophobically by her seatbelt, she unbuckled it with shaking hands and crawled backwards across the seats of the car, cringing away from John against the opposite door, chest rising and falling as she hyperventilated. 

John held his hands up in a placating manner, his face a mask of apology.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry,” John said softly, his heart aching at the wide-eyed terror in her eyes. She looked like a cornered animal, unsure whether to lash out or flee. “Clara, I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

“W-where are we?” Clara asked, trying to peer out of the windows. “Are we at the station? Are they coming to get me?” 

“No,” he said gently, shaking his head and feeling a profound sense of guilt at her disorientated confusion. “No, we’re still in the car park.” 

“Of the station?” 

“Of the flats.” 

“I don’t…” she started to cry again, raising her hands to cover her face as she wept. Her cheeks were still wet from moments earlier, and she swiped her palms over her face, trying to wipe away the evidence even as she sobbed all the harder. “I don’t understand.” 

“Clara, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think…” he sighed, his heart breaking as he looked over at the broken shell of the woman she had been minutes earlier; the broken shell that he was responsible for causing. “I didn’t know it would scare you so much.” 

“W-what?” 

“Did you really think I was arresting you?”

“Y-you… mean… y-you weren’t?” 

“Of course I wasn’t.” 

She chanced a glance through her fingers at him then, her eyes wide and distrustful. He had shattered her trust, he knew that — perhaps irrevocably — and he wanted nothing more than to make it up to her. 

“I just… I wanted to scare you, and I didn’t think you would freak out this badly.” 

“I don’t…” 

“Clara, I’m not taking you anywhere. I promise you now, hand on my heart, that I’m not taking you anywhere.” 

“I…” 

“I was never going to.” 

“Y-you hurt me.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said with contrition. “I’m not used to arresting people as small as you, or doing it one-handed. What hurts?” 

“My wrists,” she mumbled in a small voice, and he winced as he looked at the angry red marks on her pale skin, hating himself for having caused them. “My arms. My shoulders. My front.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said again, racking his brain for a way to help. “We can go back upstairs, OK? I’ll run you a warm bath, and get you some ibuprofen.”

“You r-really think that’ll help?” she let out a bitter yelp that communicated to him _exactly_ what she thought of that suggestion. “You _bastard_ , you absolute fucking _bastard…_ ” 

She lunged across the seat at him without warning, punching him in the chest and shoulders with alternating hands as she sobbed in anguish at his deception.

“Hey,” John said feebly, refusing to attempt to evade her blows. He deserved this. He deserved everything she could throw at him, and worse. He’d betrayed her trust absolutely. “Clara. Clara, c’mon…” 

She ignored him, continuing to slap and scratch at him over his T-shirt, wailing with increasing hysteria as she did so. It didn’t hurt, but he let her continue, knowing it would prove therapeutic for her to vent her anger at him and that she would feel better for having done so.

“Hey,” he said more firmly after a minute or so of continued assault, taking hold of her wrists in his good hand and drawing her against his chest. Wrapping both arms around her, he held her as she struggled weakly against him, the fight going out of her with each passing second. “There. Hey. It’s alright. Come on, let’s get you back upstairs. Nice warm drink.” 

He was anticipating a joke about his ability to make tea, but when none came he felt his guilt intensify as he realised that he may have pushed her too far — silence was never a good sign. Helping her out of the car and keeping his good arm around her waist as much to steady her as to provide a weak source of comfort, he locked the vehicle and started back towards the block, feeling Clara attempt to squirm away from him. 

“Clara,” he chided. “Clara, please. You’re in shock, I’m not letting go of you.”

“I don’t want…”

“You fainted in the car, and if you faint again out here, you’re going to hit the ground hard. Please. I know you don’t want me to touch you, but I’m not letting you injure yourself.” 

“I’m already injured,” she muttered in a low voice, and he felt another stab of remorse. “But fine.” 

They made it upstairs with minimal fuss, Clara twisting away from him at once as they crossed the threshold to his flat and ducking into the lounge. 

“Tea?” he asked the empty space where she had been, before proceeding into the kitchen and setting to work making them each a drink. His broken wrist was screaming in agony, so he threw caution to the wind and left it out of its sling as he retrieved mugs and tea bags, using it to brace the mugs as he poured hot water into the cups and scooped out tea bags, before heaping sugar into both cups and carrying Clara’s into the lounge first.

She was curled up at the end of the sofa, a cushion clutched to her chest. Her face was still wet with tears, but she appeared to have stopped crying, although whether this was a temporary reprieve as the shock overcame her or not, he could not say. She eyed him with visible distrust as he set the mug down at her end of the coffee table, before backing away and returning to the kitchen for his own drink. 

When he finally sat down at the opposite end of the sofa, he noticed with some relief that she had at least picked up her mug, and was taking tentative sips from it, screwing up her face after each slurp. 

“Sugar for shock,” he explained, taking a gulp of his own. “Thought it might help.” 

“It’s gross.” 

“It’s good for you.”

“Like putting me in cuffs and throwing me against a wall was good for me?” 

“Do you still want to target Lady O’Brien?”

“No.”

“Well, then,” John arched an eyebrow at her. “It wasn’t a wholly wasted endeavour.” 

“You could’ve asked me nicely,” she argued weakly. “Or told me nicely.” 

“I did,” he reminded her pointedly. “And you didn’t listen. I was out of ideas.” 

“Right,” she looked down at her lap contritely, swallowing thickly before taking another gulp of tea. “Sorry.” 

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he told her honestly. “And I’m sorry I scared you. But now you know what it’s like. Now you know how it would be. And I hope to god that it’s shown you that all of that is not something you want to risk.” 

“I already knew that, John.”

“And yet you wanted to target Lady O’Brien.” 

“John, please…” she took a deep breath, before continuing in a tremulous voice: “Just please, stop. I was wrong, yes, but you were wrong to use that much force to try and scare me into compliance.” 

“You weren’t listening to me,” he retorted. “What was I supposed to do? I was out of ideas. I needed you to listen. I needed you to take on board what I was saying.” 

“I don’t know,” she sighed and took another gulp of her tea, shuddering as she did so. “But you didn’t have to do… _that_. Being restrained in that way… I can’t… you don’t understand how much stuff it brings back. How many memories.” 

John felt understanding dawn on him slowly as he realised what she was referring to, and precisely how it must have made her feel to have someone she trust mirror the actions of another. “One of your dates… you said he pinned you down.”

“Yeah,” she said in a small, broken voice, looking down at her mug. “And he wasn’t the first.” 

“But you…”

“My boyfriend at university,” she said in a rush, continuing to avoid looking at him as she spoke. The words seemed to tumble out of her in a flood, urgent and necessary. “He was a decent enough guy, I suppose; bit boring, but dependable, and we got on well enough. But then there was this party to celebrate the end of exams… and we’d had a bit to drink… and he really wanted to… you know. And I didn’t, I really didn’t, because I felt sick and I was tired and I’d had a bit too much to drink, and he didn’t listen to me, and he didn’t _want_ to listen, he just wanted his own way, and so he just… did what he wanted, even though I kept saying no.”

Anger burned in John’s stomach as she spoke the words into existence; fury at this unknown man and the thing he had done, yes, but fury also at himself for not realising the trauma that lay behind what she had first told him in an upmarket restaurant, under the influence of her own spiked drink. Guilt ebbed at his conscience as twin tears spilled down her cheeks, Clara lowering her head and allowing them to drip onto the cushion she was still clutching like a lifeline.

“Did he… did you…” 

“I didn’t really tell anyone. Just a couple of friends, and Bonnie. He dumped me about a week later — Bon threatened him with physical dismemberment, apparently — and dropped out of our course. I think he ended up working in a bank in Ipswich, someone told me.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It wasn’t your fault.” 

“I know, but I’m still sorry it happened to you. And I’m sorry for scaring you, and I’m sorry if the way I used force was traumatic or if it brought anything back.” 

“I’ll be alright.”

“You don’t need to lie to me, Clara.” 

“I’ll be alright,” she said again, raising her head to look at him with an exhausted but defiant look in her eyes. “Honestly.” 

“Is there anything I can do? Warm bath? Painkillers? Something to eat — chocolate, maybe?” 

“Urm,” her cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink. “It sounds really stupid, but a hug might be nice, actually. Helped me feel calmer in the car; might help again now.” 

He opened his arms to her without hesitation, and after a second’s consideration, she set her pillow and mug aside and leaned against his chest, closing her eyes and taking a steadying breath. He settled his arms around her shoulders, feeling the tension dissipate from her frame as she nuzzled into him and exhaled. 

“Please don’t arrest me again,” she mumbled. “Even if I’m being really, really stubborn.” 

“I promise.”


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara mulls over John's actions.

As Clara headed to work on the Monday morning following John’s carefully staged intervention, she couldn’t help but feel a stab of relief at still being at liberty to travel at will as she pleased. As she sunk into her usual corner-of-the-carriage seat on her not-usual line to work, she leaned back against the grey-upholstered fabric with a sigh and allowed herself to exhale fully for the first time since the cuffs had been snapped shut around her wrists.

It had been a shock — more than that, it had been all-consuming, filling her with a visceral terror that she didn’t know she had the capacity to feel. She had considered herself unshockable and immovable; a bastion of confidence and the ability to think on her feet and to overcome any obstacle or crisis. And yet all she’d been able to do as John had slammed her, bodily, against the wall and then the car, was panic. Hyperventilate. Sob, like a child would. Fear had taken her over completely, rendering her weak and useless in the face of John’s righteous anger. 

She was accustomed to the anger of men. In her lines of work — _both_ of them — she had to be; she had dealt with enough furious tycoons and millionaires to know that they often objected strongly to being robbed, and she had dealt with enough livid fathers, unable to accept her honest comments about their little darlings, to have developed a thick skin to it all. She could brush it aside without a care in the world; she could let their fury rage around her like wind, leaving her untouched by its presence. Anger had become her bread and butter alongside deception and seduction.

And yet… coming from John, it had been different. The way he had looked at her, his eyes drained of compassion or concern, had been frightening. The way he had locked the cuffs shut around her wrists until the metal bit into her skin, cold and unrelenting, had been paralysing. The way he had manhandled her as though she meant nothing to him, throwing her against surfaces in a way that had left her with a pattern of purple bruises that she’d stared at in the mirror that morning, pressing each experimentally and watching it bloom yellow under her fingertips. It had robbed her of the ability to breathe or sleep easy, leaving her in a constant state of alert wakefulness that exhausted her. 

John’s anger towards her had been something else. Many of their early interactions had been coloured by his rage, cold and hard, or her own, hot and defensive. There had been clashes and arguments, evasions and deceptions, and yet, somehow… that had felt different. John’s anger at her then had been superficial and provoked; aimed at a version of her that both existed and did not exist, being used as it was only for her own gain. His anger towards her as he’d cuffed her had been different — aimed at the person she truly was, and white-hot in its intensity. In all honesty, it had scared her. She’d begun to consider him a friend, almost, or something akin to it, and the sudden change in his manner had been wholly disquieting enough to make her feel panicked at the mere thought of him, and panicked at the recollection that she had told him the truth of why his physicality had so frightened her. 

She regretted that now, of course. She always regretted giving him information such as that; information that could be used against her at a later date for his own advantage. She tried to tell herself that he was not like that; that he wouldn’t use her words against her, and yet, after that weekend’s incident, she could no longer make such assurances to herself, lacking in confidence as she was that he respected her or saw her as an approximate equal. She loathed herself for every time she had opened up to him, for every secret she had imparted, and yet there was something about him that lulled her into a sense of absolute security, and lulled her into the kind of mood where she felt able to share such intimate details about her life, without consideration of the consequences.

She supposed that honesty was at the cornerstone of her redemption, and yet… with each moment of honesty that the two of them shared, she felt increasingly vulnerable. Here was a man who had seen her — albeit briefly — nude during their first meeting, and then clad in nothing more than lingerie, but she felt far more vulnerable with her emotions and past laid bare than her flesh. Her body was nothing — plenty had seen it, and it was nothing more than a tool that she could utilise to her advantage when needs must. People looked at it — clothed, unclothed, or somewhere between the two — each day, with or without her consent, and thus all intimacy connected to her physicality had long since been eroded. 

Her emotions and her experiences, however, were hers and hers alone. They could not be gleaned or appraised with a look, and there were layers of consent and permission involved that meant that Clara was free to share as much or as little as she wanted: on her own terms, if and when she wished, with people that _she_ chose. There was something thrilling, yet terrifying about opening up to anyone — especially with John, aware as she was that every word she said could one day be twisted and used against her — and it made her feel more naked than being without clothes. She had handed him the keys to the kingdom by telling him the truth, and the thought of it consumed her every waking moment. Closing her eyes as panic clawed its way up her throat, she leant her head back against the ice-cold window of the carriage, not caring about the bounce and sway of the Tube as it rushed her towards Coal Hill, but just wanting her constant, raging inner dialogue to cease. 

John wanted to help her. He had made that abundantly clear — but at what cost? At the cost of his power trip? At the cost of him being able to throw her around like a rag doll? She still remembered the way her face had felt, pressed against the icy paintwork of the lounge. She still remembered the chill metal of his car’s bodywork, seeping through her clothes and into her chest. What trust she had had in him was now eroded and damaged, scarred by the actions of that night. She was equally complicit — she’d grown sluggish and complacent around him, and considered him to be a friend; a confidant, even. He was not a friend — not ever her friend — and he had reminded her of that in the worst possible way, asserting his authority and putting her back in her place. 

As she disembarked from the Tube and headed up the escalators towards fresh air and Coal Hill, she strived to banish all thoughts of John from her mind. She needed to focus. She needed to be that other version of herself; the version that her students and colleagues needed her to be, and the version that would, someday soon, be the _only_ version of her. There was no possibility of doubt; there was no room for other alternatives — one day, Miss Oswald would be her only identity. There would be no Impossible Girl and no midnight sojourns; no danger and no risk. She would settle down, and John was the means to do that. Or, at least so she had thought, perhaps naively. 

Emerging, blinking, into the early morning sunlight, she took a deep breath and emptied her mind.

Another day at the coal face. She could do this.

 

* * *

 

That evening, as Clara stood, packed once more into a home-bound Tube carriage like a sardine in a can, she couldn’t help but feel a rising sense of dread at the prospect of seeing John again. He’d promised to be waiting for her when she got home, and, while she knew that his intentions were to reassure her that she’d be able to enter the flat — he hadn’t entrusted her with a key, and she felt equal parts insulted and relieved about this fact — instead, she felt like she had the Sword of Damocles hanging over her, anticipating what awaited her upon her return.

She trudged wearily towards the flat once she’d exited the Underground station, anxiety pooling in her stomach with each step, and, as she ascended the stairs, she attempted to paint her face into something approximating a smile in order to alleviate John’s suspicion or concern.

Raising a hand and knocking on the front door, she was surprised when it swung open mere seconds later, and even more surprised to find John stood behind it with an enormous bunch of flowers. 

“I…” she blinked hard, disconcerted by the brightly coloured bouquet that he was holding out like a peace offering. “What are those for?” 

“For you,” he mumbled, his cheeks flushing red and his gaze not leaving the blooms. “Of course.” 

“Of course,” she repeated numbly, as he pushed them into her arms, and she was forced to accept them or else allow them to drop to the floor. “Why?” 

“I, ah…” he reached up and rubbed the back of his neck in a gesture that she was beginning to recognise was born of nerves. “I wanted to make it up to you. About Saturday, and the, uh… you know.” 

“Arrest.” 

“The not-arrest.”

“Schrödinger’s arrest.” 

“Yeah,” he smiled wanly at her, visibly chastised by her words. “I’m sorry.” 

“You know it’s going to take a lot more than that to make it up to me, don’t you?” 

“Women like flowers,” he protested, looking abruptly like a rabbit in the headlights. “It’s Rule 1 — all women like flowers.”

“Flowers don’t repair the trust that you shattered, John,” she told him with a shrug. “They don’t undo all the damage that you did.”

“But I thought…” 

“You thought because you’d said sorry, it would go away?”

“I… suppose.

“When has that ever worked?” 

“Never,” he admitted, exhaling slowly. “But I’m… I don’t know, I’m just not good with people.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “I noticed.”

“Can you just… tell me what it is I need to do?” John implored her, and Clara was taken aback to see that there were tears in his eyes. “Please? Because I want to fix this.”

“John, I don’t…” she sighed again. “I don’t know. I trusted you, and you betrayed that in the worst way possible. You showed your authority and reminded me who and what you are, and it just… it scared me. It’s made me question almost everything, including me being here.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I never meant to… I just wanted to show you what it could be like, I never thought… I didn’t…” 

“You didn’t think,” she completed, gently. “You didn’t think about what the consequences could or would be, and that’s… I don’t know, that’s short-sighted and it’s problematic, but you need to think about how your actions are going to make other people feel. And if you can’t or won’t, then you need to work on yourself, because it’s all very well and good wanting to help me, but if you’re still fundamentally a damaged person underneath it all, then it’s not ever going to work out for us.” 

He quirked an eyebrow at her in confusion. “‘Us’?” 

She fought the urge to blush, willing her cheeks to remain untainted by colour. “Yes, ‘us.’ This. The two of us working together to rehabilitate me. What did you think I meant?”   

“Well…” he turned a violent shade of maroon. “You’ve… I mean…” 

“What?” 

“You’ve kissed me, before.” 

“That doesn’t mean anything.” She lost the battle to stop the colour from rising in her cheeks. “That’s just…” 

“What?” 

“I do that.” 

“And?” 

“And it doesn’t mean anything,” she shifted the flowers to one arm, then pulled him down by the front of his shirt, taking advantage of having the element of surprise. Before he could protest, she’d crashed their lips together, trying to ignore the warm feeling that took root in her stomach as his uninjured hand came to rest on her cheek. She broke away with the utmost reluctance, breathing more heavily than she rightly should be, and raised her eyebrows at him significantly. “See?” 

“I…” he swallowed. “No. Not really.”

“Should I kiss you again?” 

“Yes,” he stammered. “Yes, I really think you should.”


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a terrible realisation.

John looked down at the sleeping woman in his arms and couldn’t help but frown to himself as he considered the evening’s events. After that first kiss and his breathless, confused stammering, she had kissed him again, and then again, and then _again_ , until he lost track of matters entirely. The world, in his view, had narrowed down to Clara, and the intoxicating rush that came with having her in such close physical proximity to him, his head spinning with each illicit kiss that she smiled into. She was like an addiction, increasingly impossible to deny himself, and he could no longer claim that he was able to resist her. He was hopelessly captivated by her very being — not that he would admit that aloud — and he was, at his own reckoning, impossibly emotionally conflicted about his feelings for her in a way that frightened and elated him in equal measure.

His mind turned to the way she had repeatedly panted to him, after each kiss, that what they were doing meant nothing, and he tried to cling to that as a way to feed his voice of reason. He tried to remind himself that, to her, he was nothing more than a means to an end — a way for her to absolve herself of her life of crime, and a way for her to redeem herself in the eyes of society and the law. She had kissed him, yes, but she had kissed Danny too, and countless men in the course of doing what she did, and each of those were as meaningless as she claimed their embraces to be. Yet did she kiss any of _them_ like this? Did she smile warmly at them as they made dinner, then dart across the room and press kisses to the corner of their mouths? Did she eventually open her mouth to them, shy and uncertain? Did she rest her hands on their waists? Or were those trivial nothings reserved for him and him alone? It made his head hurt with the complexity and conflict of it all, and he wanted to ask her about it, yet knew he would never be able to coax an honest answer from her.

In his arms, she made a small sound of uncertainty that mirrored his own inner turmoil, nuzzling into his chest and half-smiling in her sleep. He closed his arms around her all the more securely, and her mouth melted into a genuine smile that only confused him all the further. Was it his arms that she found comforting, even in her unconscious state? Was it his embrace that she was dreaming about, or was it the embraces of another, someone that he was unaware of? The thought piqued a shot of white-hot jealousy that lanced through him like lightning, and he bit back a curse as he realised that allowing himself to speak aloud would surely wake her. No, better to let her sleep. She looked impossibly vulnerable as she slumbered, clinging to him for redemption or solace, he was unsure which, and he wanted nothing more than to keep her safe from the dangers that awaited her outside this room.

Because the danger _was_ there — inescapable and unavoidable, all-consuming and pervasive. Kate was pursuing him relentlessly for his apparent lack of enthusiasm regarding the case; hounding and taunting him about his sudden apathy towards something he had once been so all-consumed by, and his weak excuses were falling on increasingly disbelieving ears as she raised her eyebrows at him with increasing incredulity and demanded results. It didn’t matter that he had solved several minor cases and apprehended several criminals, even from the confines of his desk — the unsolved mystery of the Impossible Girl had infected Kate now, and she was ceaseless in her endeavours to pressure him into action. There was only so long that he could lie to her for before she would undoubtedly grow suspicious, and he looked down at Clara with a pang of fear, wondering how on earth he was supposed to keep her safe from the people he had once considered friends. Especially now that any hope of him maintaining professional detachment in the case was gone. There was a certain irony to the inversion of this all; that Kate had become someone to be feared, and the woman he had once thought to be his nemesis was now asleep in his arms, firmly part of his life and the cause of his feelings of… well, he didn’t know how to classify what he felt.

Care? Concern for her? That was normal, he supposed, when faced with someone vulnerable. Clara was, at heart, not the bastion of strength that she sought to portray herself as. She was flawed and unhappy, afraid and desperate for companionship and acceptance, and he had thought himself able to provide that before the incident on the weekend had driven a wedge between them. Or at least, he had thought there to be a wedge; her kisses and hugs this evening had only confused him all the further, rendering him entirely unable to classify what she was feeling towards him. She claimed to like kissing him — what did that mean, precisely? Paired with her assertions that their kisses meant nothing, what did that render him in her eyes? A willing and complicit body with which she was free to seek gratification? A kind of glorified sexual plaything? A source of intellectual and sexual stimulation? Was she using him, the way she had used her clients, or was she lying to conceal something more uncomfortable for her to face up to? He didn’t want to get his hopes up, nor fall prey to desperate, blind optimism, but he knew Clara well enough now to know that her reluctance to engage on the topic of her romantic life concealed a deep-seated fear of rejection and of displaying weakness, and he couldn’t help but nurture a tiny spark of hope deep within his chest, irrational or otherwise.

It was ridiculous to do so, of course. Clara was young, beautiful, and fiercely intelligent. He was, by his own admission, way over the hill, far from conventional looking, let alone handsome, and about able to do half a cryptic crossword on a good day. Women like Clara Oswald did not look at men like him, especially of his age, and to pretend that they might was a lie of delusional proportions. 

And yet… she _had_ looked at him. She _had_ kissed him. She _had_ spent the evening by his side, leaning against him with casual indifference to the physical contact and planting kisses on him when he least expected it. 

Did she want him? Could she _possibly_ want him, or was this a fall back into her familiar patterns of behaviour, exhibited first with the men she robbed and then with Danny? Did she think that this was what he craved, and thus she was offering up her body to him out of some misplaced sense of obligation? She was beautiful, certainly, and the sight of her clad only in lingerie was etched into his brain, but he had lived enough of a life to appreciate that women were so much more than their physical appearance. He desired her, certainly, but he was not foolish enough to ever think she might want him in _that_ way, and so he buried his thoughts deep within his consciousness, trying not to focus on them, even as she presented herself to him in such a way that a lesser man might have found irresistible or provocative. He thought back to finding her stood in his kitchen wearing his T-shirt, and he sighed at the recollection; at the base possessiveness that overtook him when confronted with a beautiful woman wearing his clothes. He closed his eyes and swallowed thickly at the thought, his hold on her loosening as he fought with his brain for control of his body. 

Clara was not his. 

He knew this, and yet she had lulled him into a sense of false hope, even as she slept in his arms. This embrace had been entirely accidental — overcome with exhaustion, she had slipped into obliviousness as they lay on the sofa in quiet reflection, and he hadn’t the heart to dislodge her or move her, warmly comforting as it was to have someone to hold after years spent alone and wanting. There had been the odd casual fling; women who could never compare to the bright exuberance that was River, or the burning sun that was Missy, but there had been no one like Clara. No one who had been willing to trust him so seemingly absolutely, or who matched him so completely. 

Was it wrong to want her? Almost certainly. She was the antithesis of everything he should desire; the antithesis of everything he had been conditioned to want from a prospective partner. He was the Law and she was illegality personified, and yet he couldn’t help but feel drawn to her like a moth to a flame, while she remained beautiful, yet annihilating.

He stroked her hair back and laid his palm against her cheek, his hand large enough to cradle the entirety of the side of her face, and he marvelled at the sheer vulnerability that came with sleep. Clara, for all her vocal and physical defensiveness when she was awake, was no more or less human than anyone else as she slept; quiet, soft, and exposed. He chanced skimming his thumb over her lips, and she smiled, and he wanted more than anything to kiss her in that instant, yet he held back. She was exhausted and she trusted him to watch over her, and he would not take advantage of her fragile trust to appease his own desires. The trust between them, as she had stressed time and time again, was now fraught and cracked thanks to his own stupidity. His own impulsive actions had seen to that, and yet she had kissed him all the same.

Clara was a walking exercise in contradictions — he understood that well enough — but, in that instant, he wished that, perhaps, she might be a little more decipherable; a little more honest; a little more open to allowing the world in. For every metre she gave him when allowing him into her heart and her mind, she seemed to take back another five, keeping him held at arm’s length save for moments of earth-shattering vulnerability in which the words seemed to spill from her, unbidden. He thought back to her confession regarding her time at university, the truth of which had been relayed to him in a hot, blurted rush, and he thought of how afraid Clara must feel now, to know that he held the keys to her past and to understanding her completely. He would not betray her trust again. He could not bear it; could not bear to see the fear and terror in her eyes as she sobbed in his arms and to know that he was the cause. He wanted to make her smile, not weep, and he resolved in that instant to never again allow himself to reduce her to tears. 

“John?” she murmured in her sleep, screwing up her face and burrowing into his chest, and he moved his hand to the back of her neck, resting it there in a carefully reassuring gesture that seemed to soothe her. She let out a soft noise of contentment, and he felt his heart flutter at the knowledge that he had elicited it. 

“I’m here,” he whispered, feeling her settle more heavily against him. He smiled to himself, his free hand moving to the small of her back, and he held her as though she were made of glass, cradling her against himself with the utmost gentleness. This was what she needed. This was what she craved. Even if she didn’t love him or desire him, this would be enough — to be near her, and to keep her safe. 

Clara Oswald. The woman he should not, could not want.  

Clara Oswald. The woman he yearned for.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally confronts Clara about what exactly they are...

“Morning! Rise and shine!”

Clara’s voice was jarringly bright, and John groaned to himself, pulling the covers up and over his face as she flicked the lights on. He’d had almost no sleep, concerned as he was with trying to make sense of his feelings towards the woman who had been sleeping soundly in his arms, and he was feeling decidedly less than bright this morning. He curled up under the duvet, burrowing into the pillow and wondering if perhaps Clara would grant him a degree of clemency and leave him be for half an hour or so. He needed sleep. He needed peace and quiet. He needed-

The warm, comforting smell of coffee wafted towards him, and he felt his senses perk up in response to the familiar stimuli. Cracking one eye open, he wondered if perhaps he could be tempted out of bed, after all.

“Come on, lazybones,” Clara said sternly, and he rolled towards the sound of her voice enough to take in the sight of her, stood in the doorway holding a cup of coffee and looking… well, if he didn’t know better, he might have said shy. Clara Oswald did not do shy. She certainly didn’t do blushing, either, and yet her cheeks were flushed with colour. Was she embarrassed to be doing something so domestic? Was she pleased? “There’s breakfast cooking, so shift your arse.” 

She took several steps closer to the bed, keeping her face turned partly away from him, but he could still see that high, bright tinge of pink as she set the mug of coffee down on his bedside table and then lingered, hovering uncertainly beside him. He was on the verge of asking her if she was alright when she leaned down and ruffled his hair, before seizing the edge of the duvet he had relinquished his hold upon when confronted with her physical proximity and tugging it sharply away from him. 

“Hey!” he let out a startled yelp of complaint to find himself so rudely robbed of his bedclothes, and he sat up as she danced out of the room, peals of laughter ringing back to him with each step she took. 

Despite his best attempts, he could still hardly believe that there was a beautiful woman in his flat. A beautiful woman who had professed, not so very long ago, to be interested in him. A beautiful woman who had spent the previous evening kissing him, sporadically and teasingly. A beautiful woman who had slept in his arms, vulnerable and delicate; a beautiful woman who, by way of contrast, only months before had been too scared of him to even contemplate such a thing. Their relationship had changed beyond all recognition, and yet, somehow… it still didn’t feel like enough. It frightened him to admit it, but it wasn’t enough for him — it wasn’t enough for her to tease him with her meaningless kisses; it wasn’t enough for her to sleep in his arms in a semi-platonic way. He wanted it all. He wanted her entirely, forever. It was a wild, absurd notion that he knew would surely only bring him pain… and yet, he wanted her. More than anything else, he wanted her. 

“Hey!” she called from the kitchen, and he felt his heart soar and then drop. “Are you coming, or not? Breakfast is ready!” 

He grumbled to himself, swinging his legs out of bed and getting to his feet with a sense of trepidation. She’d really made him breakfast, and yet she was protesting that this meant nothing to her. Was she truly that naïve? Was she lying to herself, or to them both? Did she really not understand the messages she was sending him with each allegedly inconsequential action? Maybe he was a fool to get his hopes up; maybe there was some kind of generational difference that meant for her that sleeping in a man’s arms and then making him breakfast was an entirely platonic gesture, but for him… well, he recalled other women doing the same, and other women only doing so in the most intimate of contexts.

Grabbing a dressing gown and pulling it on before retrieving his untouched mug of coffee, he shuffled to the kitchen, noticing for the first time the smell of bacon, and he couldn’t help but smile to himself at the prospect of food and coffee and Clara, all in the same place. It was a far more pleasing start to the morning than he had been experiencing for the last few years — those mornings had contained disappointing coffee and soggy greasy-spoon breakfasts, swimming in oil, as breakfast offerings, all of which were consumed in solitary gloom. This was, regardless of the confusing context, a far more fortifying start to the day. 

“Hey,” Clara said brightly as he entered the kitchen, carefully lifting a slice of bacon, still sizzling, from a frying pan and placing it on a soft, pillowy slice of white bread. “Hope you’re hungry.” 

He watched as she repeated the action before topping the sandwich with another slice of bread, her brow furrowing slightly as her teeth worried at her lower lip and she reached for a knife. She was engrossed in her task utterly, intent on ensuring that the end result was perfect, and he couldn’t help himself. He set his mug down on the table and crossed the room to her, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and pressing a kiss to her neck. She let out a soft noise of surprise, but offered no complaint, and it was with a sense of triumphant jubilation that he instead felt her nestle back against him, her free hand coming to rest atop his where they sat just below her sternum. 

“What’s-” she began, but he merely kissed her neck again, before burying his face in the soft skin between her neck and her shoulder, inhaling the smell of her deeply and trying to commit it to memory, lest what he was about to do backfire spectacularly. “John…”

“Why are you doing this?” he murmured, trying to pitch his tone at somewhere between curiosity and neutrality. “Why are you going to all this trouble to kiss me and sleep with me and make me breakfast?” 

“Because…” 

“Because I think I’m in love with you, Clara, and if you don’t feel the same way then I don’t think I can stand to play Happy Families with you; not today and not any other day.” 

“You…” she turned in his arms, their eyes locking as she blinked up at him in stunned consternation, at a complete loss for words. “You’re…” 

“Is it wrong of me?” he asked, embarrassed to feel his voice beginning to crack as the words began to spill out of him. “Is it wrong of a jaded old has-been like me to love you? Yes, of course it is — I was supposed to be stopping you, I was supposed to be bringing you in, I was supposed to be doing my job, but we both know I can’t. Clara, I can’t do that to you, not now and not ever. God, I just… the thought repels me. I don’t want you to be apprehended. I don’t want you to be punished. I just… I want you to be mine. If you’ll have this stupid old fool of a police officer, then I want you to be mine, and I want to be yours.” 

“No one could know,” she murmured, tilting her head to the side, and there was something intrinsically lost and afraid in her eyes that tugged at his heartstrings. “No one could ever know; could you live like that?” 

He could feel his heart breaking with every word she said; feel the physical pain that her confusion and uncertainty was inflicting upon him. He hadn’t considered this; hadn’t thought that perhaps she might say no, or what might follow if she did. Would he have to ask her to leave? Indubitably — the thought of her presence here, knowing she didn’t feel the same, would be too much for him to stand. But her rehabilitation depended on him; could he condemn her to a relapse in her life of crime and decades spent in prison for the sake of his own selfishness? 

“I don’t care,” he said imploringly, realising he didn’t even as he spoke the words into existence. “Clara, I don’t care. Last night… I couldn’t bear it. I could hardly bear the fact that you were saying that those kisses meant nothing, and so I need you to be honest with me. Did they mean anything? And, if they did, could you see your way to having me? Useless and broken though I am?”

She was silent for what seemed like an eternity. His heart was pounding against his ribcage so hard that he found himself profoundly amazed she couldn’t hear it, and he watched as a plethora of emotions flickered across her face. Doubt. Fear. Confusion. Sadness. Uncertainty. Doubt again. 

And then… she reached up and placed her hand against his cheek, chuckling fondly. The warm of her skin against his was intoxicating, and he closed his eyes for a moment, resisting the urge to turn his head and press his lips to her palm submissively. “Did you really think that those kisses meant nothing?” 

“I…” he blinked hard, not understanding. “You… but you… all those men…” 

“I’ve never kissed a mark the way I kissed you. Does that clarify anything?” 

“Not really, no.” 

“I wanted you, John — still want you, present tense. I was just scared you didn’t feel the same way. All those assurances… I wasn’t trying to convince you, I was trying to convince myself, because I was so sure you just saw me as this silly, pretty thing and I felt like a fool for even thinking you could be interested in someone like me.” 

“So you’re…” 

“John,” she said decisively, her mouth twisting into a shy smile as her cheeks, for the second time that morning, turned a delicate shade of pink. “John, I know this might be revelatory, but I want you. Very much.” 

“And do you…” he swallowed thickly, loathing himself for the question he was about to ask. “Do you…” 

“You think you’re in love with me,” she said softly. “Well, I think I’m in love with you, too.” 

“Despite what I am?” 

“What?” 

“An old, washed-up police officer.” 

“John, I’m a wanted criminal,” she said gently. “Do you really think any of that matters?” 

“I…” he shrugged self-consciously, feeling a fool for even mentioning it. “I suppose it doesn’t, no.” 

“Not unless we let it, and we aren’t going to.” 

“Aren’t we?” 

“Look, are you going to kiss me, or just keep worrying?” she asked, wrinkling her nose, and he laughed then, leaning down and kissing her. He could feel her smile against his mouth, and her arms looped around his neck as he tried to pour every emotion he was feeling into the kiss. His heart was soaring uncontrollably into the stratosphere, and he tried not to think of the reality of the situation or how things could progress, because what mattered for now was Clara. Only Clara: loving her, and being loved by her. 

“Stop thinking,” she mumbled, pulling away a fraction and resting her forehead against his chest. “I can tell you’re thinking, stop it.” 

“It’s just…” he sighed, knowing they needed to be pragmatic at some point. “We both know this isn’t going to be easy.” 

“I’ve never cared about things like that, John. If you were easy, you’d bore me.” 

“So, if we went somewhere safe, you’d drop me like a hot potato?” 

“That isn’t what I said,” she frowned, seeming genuinely offended he would even consider the idea. “If you were easy and attainable, I wouldn’t have wanted you. As it is… I’ve fought for you and you’re my hard-won spoils.”

“So, you’re a marauding crusader?” he teased, his mouth quirking into a grin. “Or a pirate?” 

“I like the pirate analogy,” she said seriously, but there was a twinkle in her eye. “Very much, actually.” 

“I thought you might. So, am I your hard-won loot?” 

“Something like that,” she grinned. “I’m not going to bury you and make any maps, though.” 

“Good to know.” 

“Where do we go from here, though?” she asked, her brow furrowing. “I mean… what do we do?” 

“Well,” John said thoughtfully, reaching around her. “I don’t know about you, but I have a bacon sandwich to eat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new chapter next week because I’ll be on holiday, but there will be one on 3rd April!


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coal Hill has some news for Clara.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m baaaaaaack!

Clara supposed, in hindsight, that this had been brewing for some time. It was bound to happen, especially given the mercurial nature of her life, and yet… 

Nevertheless, it was still a shock when she was summoned, one balmy summer morning, into the office of the head teacher, and told in no uncertain terms that her contract with Coal Hill was terminated, effective immediately. A nervous-looking representative from the school’s HR team — a laughable notion; the representative alone was one half of that so-called department, and barely out of university — told her that her behaviour had been tainted by her distractibility, her work had been slapdash, and her attitude towards the job had been poor. A list of her “family crises” was read out to her, as well as a list of her so-called “sicknesses.” It was a final opportunity for her to redeem herself, but, when she refused to account for her honest whereabouts, it only served to seal her fate all the further. With much head-shaking and mumbled apologies, she was told to collect her things and to leave the premises, and no, she would not be allowed to say her goodbyes. There would be a severance payment, of course, and a carefully neutral reference for her next employer, whomever that may be, but, otherwise, this was the end of things. Goodbye, good luck, don’t let the door hit you on your way out. No fuss, no flair, no euphemisms. 

Clara could only sit there in stunned stupefaction, her mute shock seeming to serve as a further justification, in the eyes of Mr Armitage, that she was unfit to be a teacher. The affable, kind-hearted man she had once known all but fell over his apologies about the whole situation until he was red in the face, yet, the entire time he was talking, all she could think of was how much she wanted to leave — to walk out on her own terms, without having to listen to his bluster and his waffle any longer. She had loved this school — admittedly, not from the first moment she arrived, but she had grown to care for it. Moreover, she cared about her students and took pride in their work; she felt their every high and low; and she enjoyed watching them develop from nervous pre-pubescent youths into young adults ready to take on the world. Yes, she had perhaps not been as present as she could have been, particularly these last few months, but that was no excuse to do this to her — was it? Was this her punishment for all she had done? She had considered her penitence to be the desertion of her sister, and yet this seemed like a fitting second nail in the coffin. She supposed, she thought bitterly to herself, that all she needed now was for John to forsake her, and then life would truly cease to be worth living. She would have to turn back to crime, no matter the risks. 

Armitage’s monologue finally crashed to an awkward, abridged halt, and she nodded mutely and got to her feet at the HR representative’s direction, heading towards the staff room in silence. She could only thank god that there were no students present to witness her walk of shame, escorted by Armitage and the hapless HR administrator, as though she were being escorted to the witness box. Once inside the familiar room, with its worn sofas and dusty cupboards, she set her bag down, removed her planner, and handed it over, watching as Armitage skimmed through it, taking in the neatly colour-coded names and dates and marks.

“Is there anything in here you, urm, that you might…” Armitage dropped his gaze to the floor, visibly ashamed by his own actions. Clara felt a bitter stab of resentment that he couldn’t even look her in the eyes; couldn’t even offer her that final courtesy. “That you urm… would like to take with you?”

Clara crossed to the cupboard above the kettle without a sound, opening it and removing first her mug, and then the mug of a colleague who had been nothing but contemptuous to her for the duration of her employment. She shoved both into her bag without aplomb, and then nodded once to indicate that she was ready to move on. 

The final stretch of corridor to her classroom seemed like an eternity. As Clara stepped over the threshold and looked around at the neat rows of desks and the smooth wooden floor, she felt a twinge of sadness that she was about to lose this — her last safe place. She sunk into her desk chair with a dejected sigh that she couldn’t quite suppress, opening each drawer in turn and removing the items that she considered her own: a phone charger, a half-empty multipack of cereal bars, a brightly coloured pencil case and several sheets of stickers. The depressing detritus that was all that she amounted to, in the end. She shoved it all into her satchel, turned and took a final look at the board, and out of habit reached for a black pen to add the correct date to the top left corner. She thought about leaving her students some kind of message, but knew that Armitage would ensure it was removed before any of them could see it, so instead she simply amended the date, capped the pen, and set it down with a sad smile. 

“Will you tell them,” she began, still looking at the board as she spoke, “that I will miss them, and I wish them all the best?” 

“Of course,” Armitage said, with the kind of sickening sincerity that Clara knew meant that he undoubtedly _would_. She wasn’t sure if that made this harder or easier to bear. “They’ll be sorry to see you go.”

Clara wanted to ask why, if that was the case, was he firing her at all. She only nodded succinctly, then turned and walked out of the classroom before they could serve to humiliate her any further; past him, past the HR girl, past the displays of work she had so carefully co-ordinated. She heard Armitage call after her, but she kept walking. Past the hall. Past the playground. Past the gates. 

She didn’t stop to look back. If she looked back, she’d be lost.

As her feet hit the tarmac of the pavement, she reached into her bag for her much-loathed colleague’s mug, extracting it and holding the smooth weight of it in her hand. She held out her arm and let it fall to the ground, smiling to herself as it shattered into a multitude of pieces, jagged and useless. 

“Goodbye,” she said aloud, then shoved her hands into her pockets and set out for the Tube.

 

* * *

 

As she half-stumbled over the threshold of the flat, weighed down by the weight of her own forced, casual apathy, Clara felt herself crumble at last. The composure she had fought to maintain on the journey home slipped away, and she leant against the wall and took a shuddering breath, unsure whether she was about to dissolve into sobs but supposing that it was worth preparing for, all the same. She allowed her feet to carry her into the kitchen on autopilot, reaching for the kettle with shaking hands, and it was then that she froze as she realised she was not alone.

“What’re you doing here?” John asked in consternation, blinking at her from his seat at the table. There was a case file spread out in front of him, a half-empty mug of coffee steaming at his side, and a piece of toast was held in his right hand, suspended halfway between his mouth and his — she frowned, despite herself, irked by the small inconsideration — lack of a plate. He set the breakfast item down atop his mug, balancing it precariously, then leaned forward to survey her all the more intently.

“I…” she swallowed thickly, swiping her hand over her eyes in a fleeting motion and then leaning against a worktop and adopting a sunny smile. “Shouldn’t you be using a plate?” 

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” he countered, raising his eyebrows skywards in a way that was entirely maddening. Clara thought, in that instant, of the many things she could do — she could cry, or she could shout; she could weep, or she could rage; but she could not, in any case, deliver the news with an impassive face and a neutral tone. She could counter his accusation about employment with one of her own — he himself should, after all, be holed up in his office by this time, and she had been counting upon that nugget of information and the prospect of solace it held. Instead, he was here, perhaps ostensibly working from home, and the fact he hadn’t informed her of that was enough to tug at her heart, low and uncomfortable, in a way she couldn’t think about right now. 

Clara did the only thing she could think to do. She allowed her satchel to slip from her shoulder and then stepped forward, bending down and kissing him in a way that she’s thus far been shying away from. It had been a long time since she’d kissed anyone in _this_ particular way, but John’s subconscious seemed to understand and his hands came to rest awkwardly on her shoulders, the argument going out of him in an instant. He pulled away for a fraction of a second, panting against her mouth, and she used the opportunity to plonk herself unceremoniously on his lap, straddling his waist and resuming the kiss before he has the chance to speak and ask what, precisely, might be going on. _This_ was going on, and, as long as that remained the case, then nothing else was real — nothing else mattered. 

What began as a distraction technique quickly became… well, something else. As she settled against his lap and opened her mouth to him, his hands came to sit on her waist and his tongue slipped into her mouth and she felt a familiar stirring in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t want to talk, or to think about what had come to pass earlier this morning. She wanted this — wanted him, entirely, in a way they had thus far been skirting around like awkward teenagers. There had been kisses, certainly, long and meandering, and roaming hands, and the night before last his hands had fumbled with the waistband of her jeans before sliding lower, lower, and lower still, making her moan as he touched her for the first time.

She wanted that again. That, and so much more, and she told him so, low and desperate, as she canted her hips forward in a way that she knew was entirely wanton, but didn’t much care. Let him see how much she wanted him. She was offering him everything, if only he’d take it. 

“Clara…” he murmured, his voice rough and uneven in the face of her desire. “Clara, I…”

“Please,” she implored him, biting down on her lip as she struggled to catch her breath. “John, please...” 

There was a brief pause as she watched him, his pupils blown, his chest rising and falling as he tangibly struggled with himself, before he skimmed his hands up her dress and smirked.

“Can we relocate? This chair isn’t big enough to do even half of the things I’ve been thinking about, ” he hummed, pressing a kiss to her neck, and she let out a nervous, impatient laugh. 

“Yes,” she told him, grateful that he seemed willing to forget the strangeness of her presence in favour of something far, far more pleasurable. “Yes, we can.”

 

* * *

 

As they lay beside each other afterwards, her head on his shoulder and his hand resting lightly in her own, she finally found the words to say what she needed to say; to explain herself in a way that she felt he was due.

“I lost my job,” she mumbled, keeping her eyes fixed on the wall with a concerted effort. “I…”

She didn’t need to say any more. John knew. 

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, rolling over and curling around her protectively as she allowed it to overwhelm her. “Clara, I’m so, so sorry.”

She began to cry at last, tears spilling down her cheeks unbidden, and she turned her face into his chest, ashamed by her own vulnerability.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed, sniffing almightily. “This isn’t… I’m not… it’s not… _that_ was great…”

“It’s alright,” he assured her, stroking her hair with a reassuring hand. “Clara, I know. Given the circumstances, you’re allowed to cry.”

She let out a shuddering sob of gratitude then, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“When you’re ready to tell me everything,” he said gently, “then I’m here, OK?”


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John stages an intervention.

In the time that came after being made redundant, Clara struggled to adjust. Getting up and going to work had been the mainstay of her life for so long that now, devoid of that routine, she felt herself slipping into a profoundly depressed sense of apathy. She knew what she should be doing — uploading her CV to countless jobsites, applying for new roles, and starting a city-wide search for a new school — and, yet, she didn’t have the emotional energy to even know where or how to begin. Did she even want to teach again? The prospect of picking herself up and starting from scratch somewhere new was terrifying, particularly after the rocky start she had experienced at Coal Hill. She might be diminutive in size, but she was no pushover, and, while she knew that now, she was not sure how well she would cope with an entirely new cohort of pupils; pupils who had little to no respect for new teaching staff and who would undoubtedly feel the need to test her in order to force her to prove her worth. She wasn’t sure that she had any worth left to prove, and the thought of a class of thirty surly teenagers attempting to rile her was enough to reduce her, one particularly bad morning, to panicked tears.

What else could she do, if not teach? Her skillset lay in motivating and encouraging others to excel; her passion was literature, and her expertise was in teenagers. She had limited experience in being a live-in nanny, but the temptation involved in spending long hours unsupervised in someone’s home was too dangerous to consider. She wouldn’t be lured or teased back into her old ways, of that she was certain. 

Or she was, at least, until after the end of her first week of unemployment, when she found herself scrolling through various social networks in search of someone wealthy who might be in the city that week. She spent a miserable half an hour staring at the faces of previous marks she’d targeted, before bursting into disgusted, ashamed tears and confessing her minor lapse of judgement to John. As she wept and loathed herself all the further, he only held her and told her it would all be alright in the end and that her compulsions would pass, even if she did not believe it herself, and she took deep fortifying breaths and tried to believe him.

The days seemed to elongate when she was not required to commute to work, or spend eight hours a day in a classroom. Without the additional evening distraction of marking, the time seemed to become all the more interminable, as John’s work began to eat into his time, and he spent increasing periods away from the flat. Clara didn’t resent him for it, not at the start, but, as she found herself laying upon the sofa for the fourth consecutive day of being alone, staring at the ceiling and half-watching a repeated episode of _Jeremy Kyle,_ she couldn’t help but harbour a degree of bitterness that he still had a job, despite his many faults, whereas she did not. She knew, deep down, that she was being illogical and unkind — that John deserved his job because he was pure of heart and genuinely longed to make a difference — but it was still a niggling feeling that settled in the pit of her stomach, uncomfortable and unwelcome. He was helping a criminal, yet he still had a place to go, colleagues to interact with, people to help. She had been a criminal, yes, and she had paid the price — was it not perhaps only fair for the universe to wreak its revenge on John as well? 

Her trains of thought were disingenuous and muddied with self-loathing and self-pity, and, with each passing hour, she could feel her depression growing. She tried to distract herself by remaining somewhat active — she tidied and she cleaned and she did her best to make John’s flat all the more warm and welcoming — yet, after a point, she was forced to admit that she had done all that she could, and lapsed back into miserable inertia. Clara found herself exhausted by the most minor things, such as showering or making the bed, and so, as time passed she began to limit her physical activity, regressing to a passive state that involved copious hours of remaining in a horizontal position on the sofa, curled up and staring mutely at the television as though it may be capable of resonating some kind of emotion within her.

Of course, when John was present, she made an effort. She got dressed, she cleared away the detritus of her day, she tied up her hair to disguise the grease at the roots, and she forced a smile. She played the part, and he seemed to buy it — each evening (or sometimes night, depending on how intensely his job consumed his attention), he would return home with a warm smile, kiss her hello, and then spend a happy half-hour talking about his day. If it was particularly late, sometimes she would be spared the rigmarole of pretence; instead he would simply slip into bed behind her and curl into her ostensibly sleeping form, pressing a kiss to her neck as she feigned sleep so as to be spared the torture of listening to the patter of a man who adored his job. It was a peculiar sort of feeling, to resent someone for something so simple as being employed, and it was for the most part superseded by love, and yet still it remained, cold and insidious, at the centre of her chest. He had a job. She did not. And she did not know how to begin to find one.

It was not until he arrived home early one afternoon, entirely unannounced, that the fiction crumbled to dust and she was forced to abandon all pretext of coping. Clara was slumped in her usual position, a half-empty cup of cold tea on the floor beside her, when the front door opened and John stepped over the threshold. 

“Clara?” he called brightly, as she scrambled upright, eyes widening in apprehension as her heart began to thunder in her chest. “Sorry, totally forgot I needed-” 

He entered the lounge and took in the sight before him: her, dressed in a stained, worn T-shirt and joggers that she took care to change out of each evening; the curtains drawn against the bright summer sunlight; the TV beaming out terrible daytime television programmes; and the detritus of biscuit packets and half-empty mugs that lay around her. 

“Clara?” he asked more uncertainly, his brow furrowing as he began to realise that the warm, loving woman he came home to in the evenings may not in fact be the house-proud, productive person he had assumed her to be during the day. “What’s… why aren’t you…” 

“What?” she said in a small voice, unsure how to approach this situation. “Cleaning? Tidying? Cooking?”

“No,” he frowned, crossing to the window and yanking open the curtains. As the sunlight fell across the carpet Clara cringed away from it as though it would burn her, curling up into the foetal position and clutching her legs. “Why aren’t you applying for jobs, or out in the sunshine?” 

“Can’t exactly go out in the sunshine, can I?” Clara sniffed, feeling tears burn treacherously at her eyes. “London’s Most Wanted, remember?” 

“You could go to the park, or somewhere busy where you’re less likely to be recognised,” he countered. “And that isn’t the point — I thought you were job-hunting.” 

“Yes, you _thought_. You never asked; you just assumed.” 

“I…” John frowned as he realised the veracity of her words. He had never asked her; he had simply made the assumption that it was what she was doing and proceeded to ask her about it each evening, as she gritted her teeth and forced herself to invent mundane lies about CVs and cover letters and the rudeness of people who never got back to her. “Clara… what’s…” 

“I don’t know how, John,” she admitted, fighting to keep her voice level. “I don’t feel strong enough to do that right now, and I know that sounds like an excuse but it isn’t. I don’t know how I could face a new lot of students; I don’t know how I could make friends with new people; and I don’t know how to do things like interviews or applications when I don’t even like myself enough to sell myself to, well, me.” 

“I don’t… what are you saying?” 

“John, I hate myself,” she spoke the words into existence, feeling foolish and attention-seeking, even as they left her mouth. “I hate the person I am, and I don’t know how to pick myself up from this because I just… everything about me, I loathe. I’m egotistical and rash and arrogant. I lie and I deceive people. I-”

“Have you lied to me?” John asked, cutting her off. “Aside from about the job-hunting?”

“That was a necessary lie,” she reminded him. “Because you made an assumption based on your own anticipated course of action, rather than actually asking me about what I was doing.”

“I’m sorry,” John said with sincerity, a look of apology flashing across his features. “I really am. But have you lied to me about anything else?”

Clara realised, with heart-stopping guilt, what he may have taken from her words. “John, I _do_ love you,” she said in a low voice. “I have never lied about that, or deceived you about that. I haven’t lied to you for a long time, because I can’t do that anymore.”

“You’ve been pretending to be fine.” 

“Because how could I tell you I wasn’t fine, knowing it would hurt you?” Clara’s voice cracked as she took in his expression of hurt and realised that she had done the one thing she swore she would not. “How could I inflict that pain on you; the pain of knowing that I was falling apart?”

“As your partner, it would be my privilege to be able to support you,” he murmured, taking a seat beside her and pressing a kiss to her temple as he slipped an arm around her waist and drew her against him, comfortingly. “Not a burden.” 

“I’m your…” she blinked in consternation at his casual use of the term. “Partner?”

“Would you prefer ‘girlfriend’?” he wrinkled his nose. “Just, that puts me in mind of amorous teenagers, which we decidedly are not.” 

“No, it’s…” she smiled a little then, her mouth finding the unfamiliar expression and holding it with some difficulty. “Nice.” 

“I wish you’d told me,” John told her in a low voice. “I wish you’d told me you weren’t alright, because I wouldn’t have let you get to the stage of watching _Jeremy Kyle_.” 

“Half-watching.” 

“That isn’t any better. God forbid, it’ll be _Loose Women_ next.”

“That’s already been on this morning.”

“Alright, you really do need a bloody intervention,” he chuckled. “I’m going to phone Kate and tell her I don’t feel well, so I won’t be coming back to the station today. That frees up my afternoon nicely.”

“Why are you here, anyway?” Clara frowned as she realised that his presence at this time of day was at odds with his usual hours. 

“Forgot a file.” 

“My case?” 

“Not all my cases are about you,” he teased, ruffling her hair fondly and then grimacing. “Clara, when was the last time you washed your hair? Because I’m not wishing to shame you or anything, but if it gets any greasier, you could go into competition with a Mod.” 

“Urm…” she struggled to remember. “Must have been…” 

“Right, I’m going to make you something to eat that isn’t chocolate biscuits or Pringles, which you’re going to eat before having a bath, and then we’re going to curl up on the sofa and watch something terribly trashy together, while ordering a takeaway to eat this evening while we discuss plans for the future. How does that sound?”

“Really nice, actually,” Clara admitted. “I’d like that, a lot.” 

“OK,” John smiled. “How do you feel about spaghetti carbonara?”


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate meets with John and delivers a crushing blow.

John had spent, by his own reckoning, approximately two-thirds of the last two working weeks thinking about solutions that would enable himself and Clara to live a quiet life, somewhere free from the omnipresent spectre of the Metropolitan Police. He’d made lists and speculative plans; he’d done covert Google searches on his phone at his desk; he’d racked his brains to try and come up with a workable solution; and yet still he was struggling to see a viable future for them. He didn’t want to live like this; to have to spend the entirety of his time with Clara indoors, unable and afraid to leave the house, lest she be recognised. He didn’t want to have to sneak around in darkness under a cloak of deception, unable to be overt about their relationship. He wanted to be open; he wanted her to have her freedom, rather than being cooped up inside as though under house arrest. She might not have voiced it aloud, but he could tell that her frustration was mounting with each passing day, particularly now that she didn’t have her job to keep her occupied. She was trapped in the confines of his flat, watching copious amounts of terrible television, and he could sense that the stifling oppression of it all was a risk to her rehabilitation. If she grew overly bored, there was a chance she could relapse for the sheer adrenaline rush of pulling a job, and the last thing he wanted was for that to happen. No, he needed a viable plan — and fast. 

“John,” Kate said as she marched into John’s office without bothering to knock; he flicked his notebook shut with as much casual haste as he could muster. “How’s the Impossible Girl case looking?” 

“Oh,” he cast a gaze over at the pages of notes he’d spread over his desk, pretending to contemplate them. “Yeah, it’s… going alright, I suppose. She seems to have packed in her activities though.”

“Which seems weird,” Kate dropped into the seat opposite his, frowning as she did so and reaching for a nearby document. “She had a lucrative criminal career going, why give it up? She never seemed scared of us before now. So, much as I’d like to take credit, I can’t.” 

“Maybe something happened.” John affected a nonchalant shrug. “Something at home, maybe.”

“You’re still being weird about this whole thing.” Kate narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, placing the document back down and affixing him with a probing expression. “You were convinced she was Public Enemy Number One; you were determined to catch her. And now… now you seem entirely apathetic about the whole thing.” 

“Do I?” John forced himself to frown, attempting to look troubled by this accusation. “No, I still want to bring her in.”

“So, why are you being so weird about it? It took you ages to follow up on that lead last week — speaking to what’s-his-name…” 

“Ilin?” 

“Why does he only have one name?” 

“It’s a statement,” John’s mouth twitched into an involuntary smile. “I’m not sure what of. Being a twat, maybe.” 

“Well, it took you so bloody long to follow up on that… what’s got into you, John? Why have you suddenly lost motivation? We need to get that woman before she strikes again. Didn’t you say it yourself — you were terrified that she was going to set her sights higher? That soon, robbery won’t be enough?” 

“I, urm…” John dropped his gaze, embarrassed now to have espoused such theories to Kate. “Yeah, I did. I am.” 

“Well, she seems to have gone the other way, so I really don’t know how you got that so wrong.” 

John thought of Clara that morning, smiling as she kissed him goodbye. “No,” he said thinly. “No, nor do I.” 

“I didn’t invite your miserable arse down here to sit around and not get results, John,” Kate sighed. “If I wanted that, I’d have just hired an identikit replacement for DI Pink. But no, you have a long and successful reputation, so I thought I’d get you down here, get you on the team, get results. And look: we haven’t had any.” 

“Excuse me!” John protested, stung by the accusation. “My other cases-” 

“Your other cases aren’t important,” Kate told him bluntly, and John blinked hard. “They’re-” 

“What, so a rape victim, she isn’t important? That family whose daughter was killed by a drunk driver, they’re not important?” 

“That isn’t what I-” 

“No, Kate,” he snapped, his temper fraying. “I didn’t join the force so that I could be told that what I did wasn’t important. I didn’t join the force to be told that people don’t matter. I think that the two cases I’ve just mentioned are, frankly, more important than the liberation of wealth from a few rich twats by a woman who is young enough and probably pretty enough to turn their heads. To me, that seems like karmic intervention. You know what doesn’t? That poor fucking girl, nineteen years old, raped on her way home from a friend’s. That poor bloody family, little girl, eleven years old, hit by someone who didn’t even have the decency to stop. Those are the cases that matter to me, Kate. Those are the things that count — getting justice for those broken families, and making sure that the culprits don’t strike again. Redistributing wealth? Yeah, that’s _terrible_. That’s really, abundantly, diabolically terrible. Maybe if the Impossible Girl’s victims weren’t such insufferable dickheads, I’d give a shit. But, as it is, I really think they have it coming. Gentrifying the city, exploiting people, living in the lap of luxury when so many in this city have nothing. It’s disgusting. It’s abhorrent. So, yes, what she’s doing is illegal, but, in the grand scheme of things, I can rest easier in my bed knowing that she’s out there than I can knowing that there’s a scumbucket out there who _ran over a child_ and didn’t so much as fucking stop.”

There was a long pause as he came to the end of his rant, his chest rising and falling as he surveyed his superior officer with apprehension. He watched emotions flit across her face: amazement, respect, uncertainty, anger, and then resignation.

“John,” she said quietly. “I’m relieving you of the Impossible Girl case. I’m taking it on.” 

“What?!” he felt panic rise in him at once, hot and insidious. “No, you can’t do that! You brought me down here to work on it, you can’t take it away from me just because I happen to think other cases-” 

“You said it yourself,” Kate said flatly. “You think other cases are just as — if not more — important, and you’re right. They are. So I’m relieving you of duty on this case, effective immediately.” 

“Kate, no… you can’t… I’m sorry… I’ll…” 

“Don’t, John,” she said coldly, getting to her feet. “You’ve made your bed. Now lie in it.”

She swept out of his office before he could say another word, and, with a sense of sinking despondency, John flipped open his notebook again, scoring through all of his ideas save for one, which he underlined. Clara wasn’t going to like it, but, given everything that had just happened, it was the best he had.

 

* * *

 

Clara was about to retrieve dinner from the oven when John arrived home from work. She could tell at once that he hadn’t had a good day, as she sound of his bag hitting the floor was unaccompanied by his usual warm call that he was back. Sighing, she adjusted her ponytail and then opened the oven door, sliding the pizza within onto a chopping board and straightening up as John stepped into the kitchen.

“Hey,” she said as brightly as she was able, keeping her back to him as she reached for a pair of scissors and began chopping it into slices. “Hope you’re hungry, because this is enough to-”

“I’ve been taken off your case.” 

Clara felt her stomach drop, and she flinched as though she’d been shot. The news was like being plunged into cold water — there was a sudden disconcerting sense of uncertainty and terror, and an inability to see a future unafflicted by the ramifications. She wanted to cry; she wanted to raise her hands to her face and double over in terrified horror, but she forced herself to keep her shoulders straight and keep preparing dinner, even as the hot dough burned her fingertips. 

“Oh.” 

“Did you hear me?” he asked, more loudly this time, and he reached for her shoulder and gave it a small shake. “I said _I’ve been taken off your case_.”

“Oh,” she said again, for want of anything more illuminating to say. She couldn’t formulate a sentence; couldn’t bring her thoughts together coherently to respond to this news, so instead she said, mechanically: “I hope you’re hungry.”

He pulled her around to face him with a surprising amount of force, the scissors she’d been using clattering to the worktop as she found herself wrenched around, his hands looping around her wrist in an uncomfortable reminder of who and what he was. “I’ve been taken off your case! For god sake, respond! Act like a normal human being!” 

“You’re hurting me,” she said calmly, even though he wasn’t. She needed him to let go of her — the way he was clinging to her, backed against the worktop, was suffocatingly claustrophobic, and she leaned back, away from his touch in a way that she knew would encourage him to release his hold on her. “Let me go.” 

John took an obedient step back, but his eyes remained wide and wild. “Sorry. Just … can’t you just respond like a normal person?” he implored. “Show some fucking emotion? Anything?” 

“What kind of emotion would you like me to show, John?” she asked, her tone flat and monotonous as she struggled to process what he was saying. “Would you like me to be angry? To cry? To swear? To weep? To hit things? To hurt you?” 

“Anything.” 

“No,” she whispered. “I’m not going to play this game. I’m not going to absolve you of your sins by playing a part.”

“I…” John blinked at her in stunned stupefaction, and then the façade crumpled. The furious expression slipped from his face, and he burst into tears, raising his hands to his face and beginning to sob like a child. “I can’t… I can’t protect you…” 

“Hey,” Clara said softly, stepping forwards and wrapping her arms around him. “Hey, it’s going to be alright. We can work this out.”

She wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince, herself or him, but the words kept coming, low and reassuring. 

“We’ll figure this out. We’ll find a solution, John. We’ll be OK. We can make it work. Everything is going to be fine.”

“There’s…” he pressed his face against her hair, breathing her in, and then sighing. “There’s one thing… one thing we could do, but you’re not going to like it, but you need to consider it…”

Clara felt the blood freeze in her veins as she realised what he was going to say. 

“Bonnie…” 

“No-”

“She’s identical to you…” 

“No-”

“She could…”

“I said _no_ ,” Clara spat, twisting away from John and staring at him with contempt. “What part of that don’t you understand? What part of that do you think means ‘convince me’? She’s my sister. I can’t believe you’d even suggest that; I can’t believe you’d even think that was… what the hell is wrong with you? Why would I do that to Bon?” 

“But you’re…”

“It doesn’t matter what you think of her, or what I think, or whether she’s speaking to me or not. She’s my sister, and I’m not throwing her to the wolves. I can’t believe you’d even dare to suggest it. You absolute… get out.”

“What?” he blinked at her, screwing up his face in confusion, looking around at them with an expression of bafflement. “Clara, this is _my_ flat.” 

“I don’t care. You can actually bloody leave; you aren’t stuck here like a prisoner. So go on, get out. Now.” 

“But-”

“ _Now_!” she screamed, clenching her fists at her sides, and he took two steps backwards, nodding in acquiescence as he held up his hands in surrender. 

“OK,” he said quietly. “OK, OK. I’m going.” 

As the front door slammed behind him, Clara sank to the floor, clutching her knees to her chest and beginning to sob. The fear that she had been keeping at bay for so long was threatening to overwhelm her, and as she closed her eyes, she gave in to it at last.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara receives a phone call, and realises that she has been betrayed.

Six days.

Six days had passed since Clara had exiled John from his own home, and she neither knew nor cared where he was now. Or, at least, that was what she tried to tell herself in her moments of guilt, as her jaw trembled and tears threatened to spill down her face, the unjust callousness of his suggestion to frame Bonnie for her crimes eating away at her. 

He’d been back — once, and once only; she’d agreed in advance to stay in the kitchen while he did so, under the express understanding that he wouldn’t try to see her and vice versa — to get some clothes and a toothbrush and all the usual detritus that makes up a life, but, other than that, she’d neither seen him nor heard from him. That was irksome in itself; she’d half-hoped there would be a series of grovelling texts and phone calls, or bunches of flowers arriving at the door, and yet, instead… there was nothing. Radio silence. It was as though she’d never been part of his life at all, and now she was a mere parasite, living in his flat and eating his food, while he was forced to live a life in exile.

She supposed, in a way, it was poetic justice. He’d turned her life upside-down enough times, made her feel uncertain and afraid, intimidated and lost — this was only a setting of the world to rights. It was his turn to experience those emotions now, and it seemed only fair. He could live a life of nervous displacement, unsure and adrift in the currents of London’s seedy streets, as punishment for what he had done. She knew these thoughts were unkind — this was the man she loved, after all — and yet, somehow, she couldn’t help but lose herself to them in moments of anger, hot and impetuous, as she stood surrounded by his worldly goods and cursed him for his heinous suggestion. 

In her quietest, weakest moments, she cried for him. She cried as she wondered how he could even have entertained the notion of framing Bonnie; how poorly he knew her to think that such an idea would be well-received; how he could have just walked out of her life on command without so much as a text since his brief sojourn home to gather his things. There was no warmth in this silence, and no tenderness. There was no desire to make amends on his part. In exiling John and remaining in the place that reminded her most of him, Clara had doomed herself to feeling the isolation and uncertainty she had wished upon him, and she wondered if he was suffering in a similar manner, or whether he was continuing with his life, unhindered by having a criminal in his bed and his heart. 

She’d really thought he cared, and yet this ongoing silence felt like a punishment. She’d made the foolish mistake of falling in love with him, and this was the price she was condemned to pay — this reminder that her impetuous temper and blazing fury would doom her to a life of solitude, quashing all hopes of a romantic relationship that endured the test of time. She supposed she ought to leave John’s flat — removing herself from the painful, enduring reminders of all that they had shared together seemed like a step towards putting herself back together — and yet it seemed too reassuringly familiar to leave behind; a return to her old life and her old home was anathema to her, particularly without her twin’s presence, and so she remained in purgatory, numb to it all. 

She had thought — pessimistically, perhaps — that upon being left alone and in such limbo, her desire to return to her old ways might return. She’d hoped she might feel the stirrings of criminality; a desire to feel the heady rush of adrenaline that had characterised her life for so long. She had yearned for it during these past few months with John; the thought of it had consumed her as she lay in bed at night, John slumbering beside her. And yet, now… now the thought filled her only with bilious shame and disgust; her past actions bringing tears to her eyes as she thought of all she had done and how it had impacted those around her. She spent countless hours hunched over the toilet bowl, shuddering and shaking as she was sick with shame, with regret, with horror, and she clenched her fists at her sides and wondered how, precisely, she could atone for her past. 

The decision, when it finally came to her, seemed so obvious that she could have laughed at her own obliviousness to the inevitable. It was a simple enough process to enact, one that came in four simple steps and was borne of several hours of work.

First, the research. Squinting at her phone screen, hunched over on the sofa, trying to make decisions as she scrawled copious pages of notes and weighed up facts and figures and pros and cons. 

Second, the compiling of a list. There were first twenty items, then fifteen, and finally twelve. Her goal had been ten, and yet there was something so compelling about the twelve that she could not bring herself to cull any of them any further. 

Third, the online ordering of a cheap phone — tacky, plastic, not made to last, but that was the point of it. 

Fourth, she issued her instructions to those who held her purse strings — someone as far away and as detached from her as it was possible to be, and yet she sensed their stupefaction, even over the phone. She was very clear in her orders. There was to be no trace. There was to be no name. There was simply to be twelve separate anonymous donations to twelve separate charities, and that would be that.

Reparations, she hoped. Reparations, accompanied by her repentance. 

She could only pray it would be enough to redeem her.

 

* * *

 

When her phone rang, long and loud, it ripped her from the half-slumber she had been trapped in. She had been caught in a nightmare, somewhere between sleeping and waking, pursued relentlessly by a force of faceless police officers who were all baying for her blood. It was like being hunted down by dogs, and the visceral terror gripped her chest as she sat bolt upright, choking and gasping for breath, wishing that there was someone beside her to soothe away her panic. Instead, she could only grope blindly for the offending item of technology, checking the number and frowning down at the screen. 

_No Caller ID._

As a rule, she didn’t answer such calls. In a past life, the converse had always been the way; in her past life, business had been conducted with faceless nameless people with no caller ID, but now — this was something different. This was menacing and unwelcome; this was threatening and uncertain; and it was only the lateness of the hour that compelled her to slide her finger across the screen and accept the call, raising the device to her ear hesitantly.

“Hello?” she asked in a wary tone, her voice still thick with sleep, and she was greeted with nothing but static. She cleared her throat before repeating again: “Hello?” 

The line clarified, and she was assailed by the sound of sobbing — and worse than that, the sound of someone horribly, painfully familiar sobbing with absolute abandon, unable to control their anguish. 

Bonnie. It was Bonnie, and something terrible had happened — Clara’s composed, sensible sister did not lose her composure over the merest inconvenience. No, this was something else entirely — something that sat heavily at once in Clara’s stomach, suspicion and fury beginning to broil within her. 

“H-hello,” Bonnie managed, struggling to catch her breath between sobs. “Amy.”

Clara frowned in consternation, hurt that her sister had dialled an incorrect number, before realising that her twin knew this number by heart, and that Bonnie’s strange use of their housemate’s name and renewed sobs in fact only confirmed her suspicions. Bonnie was not alone. Bonnie was not alone, and she was not at liberty to talk freely, but she still needed her sister’s help and compassion. 

“Bonnie,” Clara said in a low, urgent voice. “Bonnie, what is it? What’s happened?” 

“They’ve… I don’t know her name, I can’t remember… this woman, she came to where I was staying and she was saying all these things, all these awful things, and she… she… she…”

“Was it Kate Stewart?” Clara interrupted, her free hand clenching into a fist at her side, nails biting into her palm as she struggled to retain her composure. “Was that her? Blonde, middle-aged. Power suits.”

“Y-yes, but that’s n-not… A-Amy, they’ve arrested me. They’ve arrested me and they’re charging me and they want me to talk and I won’t, I can’t, because I don’t… I don’t… this is all…” 

In that instant, Clara felt her world shatter. She had trusted John implicitly. She had given him her confidence and her love and her faithfulness, and this was how he repaid her. Had she not been clear enough? Had she not been vehement enough in her decrying of his intended course of action; in his suggestion to implicate Bonnie for her own crimes? And now… now this. Now this final act of hateful betrayal, like sticking a dagger into her chest, and she curled up into her pillows as though she had been physically struck. She had had faith in him. She had loved him. And now her sister was suffering in her place, and it was unbearable. 

“Bonnie, I’m sorry,” she managed, realising belatedly that she had started to sob in response to her sister’s tears. “Bonnie, I’m so, so sorry; I promise you, this is a mistake, and I will absolutely make amends. I will do everything in my power to make this right. I swear to you on my life, and on Mum’s life; I will fix this.” 

“B-but…” 

“Bonnie, I’m getting you out of there.” 

“B-but… you’ll…” 

“I don’t care,” Clara said firmly, realising for the first time that she truly didn’t. “I don’t care what it takes, I don’t care what I have to do. These are my wrongs and I’ll right them. That isn’t for you to do, it’s for me to do. I love you, and I will fix this. I swear that to you, Bonnie, do you understand? I’ll fix this.” 

“I… I…” 

“I love you. Be strong, and don’t say a word. Hold tight.” 

“I love you.” 

There was a click as the line went dead, and then Clara buried her head in the pillows and let out a long, furious scream. She knew what she had to do; had always been revulsed by the idea of it, and yet now, faced with it… it seemed like a logical conclusion to it all. She had always been heading for this moment, and she felt a curious sense of calmness at the sheer, compelling inevitability of it all, as though the universe was finally welcoming her home, saying, “Thank you, this was always where you were meant to be.” She had no tears to shed over it, only tears to shed over the man who had driven her to this point. He had said he loved her and that he wanted to protect her, and yet he had driven her to this point. He had taken her to the brink, and now she stood, awaiting the fall, wanting nothing more than to get it over with, and yet knowing that she had a final confrontation to make first. 

Looking down at the phone, she dialled John’s number and listened to the hollow, electronic ringing. 

“Clara?” he mumbled blearily as the line connected at last. “Clara, what-” 

“Come over. Now. Don’t make fucking excuses. I want you here within the hour, or I will destroy you.” 

She hung up before he could speak again, taking a deep fortifying breath and getting out of bed. 

She would greet her fate as an old friend. 

But first, she would bid farewell to the man who had brought it to pass.


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara confronts John about his actions, and prepares to meet her fate.

At the sound of the key in the lock, Clara looked up from her lap. She’d been picking at her cuticles for the past half-hour, and her fingertips were sore and smeared with odd streaks of blood where she’d worried the skin with her teeth. Clenching and then unclenching her fists, she raised her chin defiantly, setting her jaw and resolving with every fibre of her being not to cry in front of John. 

She’d dressed, after the phone call, in a simple enough outfit — black jeans, white blouse, black jacket — and topped it all with red lipstick and dark eyeliner, because there was nothing quite like playing the part of the dangerous criminal that everyone expected her to be. It might be the small hours of the morning, but she looked ready to face the world, even if she felt a sinking drop in her stomach each time she thought of what was to come. She would hold her head up and face it, come hell or high water, but what mattered for now was maintaining the façade of fury that she had spent the previous thirty minutes cultivating.  

John had betrayed her, in the worst possible way — he had let Kate arrest Bonnie, despite her desperate protestations to the contrary. He had wanted the best for her, so he claimed, but what he had done was unforgiveable, and now he would pay for his actions. She loved him — like a damn fool, she still loved him — but, in that moment, there was nothing but loathing and contempt in her mind for the man who purported to be her redeemer. She wouldn’t allow him that title. She wouldn’t allow him that self-satisfaction. She was the architect of her own redemption, not him; she was the one who had made the decision to change; she was the one who had resolved to be better. He had been tangentially influential, certainly, but he was not her Lord and Saviour. She didn’t kowtow to men, not ever. Men feared her, and John was about to cease to be the final exception to that rule.

“Clara?” his voice came from the hall, small and uncertain. He sounded afraid, and at that her mouth turned up into a bitter smirk. He should be scared of her; should be apprehensive about facing up to the consequences of what he had done. “Clara, where are you? What’s going on?”

“In the lounge,” she called with faux levity, arranging herself all the more artfully on the sofa. She sat up straighter, crossed her legs, and arranged her hands atop her knee. “Come through, John.”

He stepped into the lounge, squinting in the darkness and immediately groping for the light switch. Flicking it on, he blinked down at her in consternation, before looking around the room and giving a baffled shrug as to the entire situation. 

“What’s this?” he asked, stifling a yawn, and it was then that she realised he was still in his pyjama trousers and T-shirt, a hoodie slung over the top of the crumpled sleepwear. She bit back the urge to laugh — here she was, composed and ready to face him, and he hadn’t even taken the time to get dressed. “What’s going on? Why are you dressed like that?” His face turned ashen, and his eyes widened. “Have you relapsed?”

“No, I have not. Don’t bother playing innocent with me,” she said coldly. “I know what you’ve done.” 

“Clara, I have…” he flopped down onto the adjacent sofa and affixed her with a blank stare of incomprehension, “…no idea what on earth you’re on about. What’s with the outfit and the makeup and the threatening phone call?”

“Don’t play this game,” she snarled, her temper flaring. “Don’t try to act like you have no idea why you’re here, because it won’t improve my mood. Quite the opposite, in fact.” 

“Clara…” 

“You really have no idea? You really want to lie to my face and pretend that you have no clue at all about betraying me?”

“ _Betraying_ you?!” he let out a bemused yelp, running his hands through his hair and yawning again. “You’re the one who exiled me from my own flat and cast me adrift without so much as a chance to even make amends, and yet _I’m_ the one who’s betrayed _you_?”

“With your suggestion about my sister? Yes, you are. With your delightful follow-up to that suggestion, you’ve put the final nail in the coffin.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” 

“Oh, please. Like you don’t know what Kate’s done.” 

“Clara, I’ve been on leave for the last week, trying to get my head together.” 

“Bonnie’s in custody, John, and you really expect me to believe that you had nothing to do with it?” 

The colour leached from his face, and his mouth fell open in aghast shock. “She’s… she’s… what?” 

“Don’t play innocent with me,” she snapped, but there was something so sincerely unchoreographed in his reaction that she began to doubt herself and her own assumptions. “Like you didn’t put Kate onto it.” 

“Clara, I’ve been on leave!” he repeated more emphatically. “If I’d known she was going to do this, I’d have headed her off; I’d have stopped her — I wouldn’t have let her touch Bonnie, or you, not ever!” 

“Really?” Clara asked coldly, but there was a tremor to her voice now that betrayed her inner turmoil. Was he telling the truth? Was there some impossible chance that she’d got this wrong? “Despite your little _suggestion_?” 

“You love Bon,” he said quietly, making it sound so simple. “More than anything. Your reaction… it was so visceral and so appalled, I just… I knew I’d made a terrible mistake to even suggest it, so I left, I got a room at a hotel, and I took some annual leave. I wanted to work out how to make it up to you. I wanted to become a better person. I wanted to be able to make amends. I never wanted Kate to touch Bonnie. I never _knew_ Kate was going to touch Bonnie, or I’d have stopped her.” 

“Do…” Clara swallowed, feeling suddenly embarrassed by the depth and intensity of her anger as it ebbed away from her as quickly as it had boiled over. “Do you really mean that?” 

“Keeping her safe matters to you, so it matters to me. Do you really think I’d let anyone hurt you, directly or indirectly?” 

“It’s just…” 

“My idea was stupid and naïve; I wanted you safe but I didn’t consider the ramifications of my words. She’s your twin, your other half, and the idea of letting her take the fall for you is just… I was so wrong, Clara, and so stupid. I _know_ this timing seems improbably opportune, but I swear to you on my life, I did not have anything to do with Bonnie’s arrest.”

The fight went out of Clara in an instant and she slumped back against the sofa cushions, burying her head in her hands. “Fuck,” she muttered, desperate to avoid bursting into tears. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

There was a long, pregnant pause, Clara fighting the urge to weep as she hit the heels of her hands against her forehead, wondering as she did so how exactly they could endeavour to move on from this. 

“Hey,” John said softly after a moment, taking a seat beside her and reaching for her hands. Meshing their fingers together, he drew her palms away from her head, shaking his head in a chiding manner. “Don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself. Can’t have that.” 

“What do you care?” she mumbled miserably. “I’ve just accused you of bloody awful things, you should be furious with me.”

“It wasn’t an unreasonable assumption,” he said with an easy shrug. “It was a logical conclusion to reach, but you need to remember — I love you, and I would never do anything you had expressly told me not to.”

“Don’t say that,” she whispered, turning her face away in shame. “Don’t say that you love me, because it makes this so much harder.” 

“Makes _what_ so much harder?” he asked quizzically, tugging her hands gently in a bid to shift her gaze back to him. “Clara, what are you talking about?”

“Don’t…” she swallowed thickly, tears clawing their way up her throat. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Are you…” his voice cracked. “Oh, my god, are you ending this?” 

“No!” she said at once, shaking her head with absolute vehemence. “No, no, no. It’s… I’ve got to…” 

“No,” he whispered, comprehension beginning to dawn. “Clara, no.” 

“Yes,” she breathed. “John, I’m so sorry, but I have to. I can’t just leave her there.”

“But you’ll… but I’ll…” 

“Please,” she implored him in desperation. “Please, I know it’s difficult for you to understand, but I need you to. I have to do this. I can’t leave Bonnie in custody. I can’t let her take the fall for what I’ve done.” 

“I know, but…”

“No buts,” Clara shook her head decisively. She had made up her mind the second Bonnie had ended the phone call, and now she was resigned to what she knew she needed to do. “I’ll go and confess, and take her place — my rightful place — and she’ll be free. As she should be.” 

John wrapped his arms around her tightly, burying his face in her hair and beginning to cry. “God, you are just…”

“What?” 

“Impossible, in so many ways. You think you’re a bad person, but you’re not, you know. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met. And I love you, more than anything.”

“I know.” 

“This is going to kill me.”

“I know. You’re going to be furious, and you’re going to be sad, but listen to me. Don’t let this change you.”

“What’s the point of doing what I do if I can’t help you?” 

“Help others. Don’t let this turn you into an emotionless monster. I will hand myself in, and no one else, not Bonnie or anyone else, will suffer.” 

“What about me?” 

Clara smiled sadly, tears welling in her eyes as he clung to her all the tighter. “If there was something I could do about that, I would. I guess we’re both just going to have to be brave.” 

“I could help… I could… the evidence…”

“John, no,” she told him softly, determined not to let him orchestrate his own downfall alongside her own. “This is my own doing. It’s for me to face up to.”

“I… just… stay with me. Just for a few more hours. Please.”

Clara looked him in the eyes, seeing the agony laid bare in his gaze, and knew she couldn’t deny him this last request. “OK,” she said softly. “OK, I’m yours until morning.”

 

* * *

 

John sat in the back seat of his car with his arms around Clara, loathing what was about to happen. They were parked several streets over from the station, but he could feel the ominous presence of it, insidious and creeping, and as pervasive as fog.

“Stay with me,” he pleaded, for the hundredth time since they fell apart in each other’s arms as dawn broke. “Please. Stay with me.”

“Nah. You stay here.”

“Clara…”

“This is as brave as I know how to be. I know it's going to hurt you, but, please, be a little proud of me,” she kissed him for a final time, long and sad and sweet, her lips tasting of tears, and then pulled away and dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her sleeve, affixing a watery smile to her face. “Goodbye, John.”

“I love you.” 

“I love you,” she smiled bravely and then climbed out of the car, striding towards the station with a degree of confidence that he knew to be a smokescreen for her terror.

 _Please, look back_ , he implored silently. _Please, just one last time, just look back at me, please…_  

Clara kept her head held high and her eyes fixed forwards, turning the corner and disappearing from sight. 

It was then, and only then, that John allowed himself to fall apart.


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara is afforded one final chance to say goodbye.

Clara stared at the chipped white paintwork of the dented, scarred wall opposite her, feeling a rising sense of despair as she clutched her arms around herself and fought the urge to cry. She was in a cell that was no bigger than one of the store cupboards at Coal Hill, with an oppressively low ceiling and a window that had honest-to-god bars across in a laughable parody of everything she had expected from a police cell. There was a narrow, solid ledge that served as a bed or bench depending on her level of exhaustion, a chemical toilet in one corner, and a laughably thin sheet of cheap material that was passing itself off as a blanket. She’d had to fight for that, after she’d convinced them she wasn’t a suicide risk, and now she clutched it around her shoulders, shivering nonetheless.

She had no idea what time it was, or how long she’d been here. She supposed it couldn’t have been _that_ long — there was a limit to how long they could hold her for, after all — but it seemed an eternity, one full of anonymous, uncomfortably warm interview rooms with ugly, stained carpets; cold metal handcuffs; and Styrofoam cups of terrible, lukewarm coffee. And then, on top of that, there had been the hard, cold face of Detective Superintendent Stewart, John’s boss, which had softened only slightly when she realised that Clara wanted to confess to it all. 

It hadn’t been so much a charge sheet as a charge _novella_. Clara had had to sit and listen to the litany of charges as they were read to her, and, whereas her head had been held high to start with, it had lowered and lowered and lowered with each additional accusation until finally she had allowed shame and disgust to overcome her and crumpled into herself, no longer caring about upholding a brave persona or a flippant attitude. She was frightened, and she was alone, and she could see no way out from this. It was only the knowledge that she was saving Bonnie that kept her going as she stumbled and tripped and whispered her way through her confession, and then she was brought back to this miserable cell and left on her own once again.

She closed her eyes and brought her knees to her chest, pressing her face against them and allowing herself to let out a strangled sob. She’d been a fool — she’d been driven by excess and greed and a need for control, and now this was the fate she had condemned herself to. This was all that she deserved. She didn’t want to think about John — it hurt so intensely that it robbed her of the ability to breathe — but she couldn’t help herself, and she wondered if he was at work at that very moment, sat in his office or somewhere else in the station above her, trying to carry on with his day as though the woman he loved wasn’t rotting in a cell for all that she had done. She wondered what lie he would fumble in a bid to explain his strange behaviour to colleagues. She wondered if he’d phone in sick. She wondered what he was thinking, and if he was planning some brave, yet foolish rescue attempt to break her out of custody. That wouldn’t do. She wouldn’t allow him to risk his life and his career for the sake of love — and, besides, if he could hold his nerve then at least one day, he might be able to visit her, in whatever grim institution she ended up in. That small thought elicited a tiny smile from her; one that was extinguished as she realised that any foolhardy rescue attempts he might endeavour for would remove such possibilities — she wasn’t an expert, but it seemed rather unlikely that he would be able to visit her if he was in a cell of his own. 

She took a deep, shaking breath and clung to her legs all the tighter. Her thoughts turned from John to her family. Her father would be disappointed, of course. He’d not bothered to be there for her and Bonnie since their move to London, engrossed as he was in his brand-new life with his brand-new wife, but this would bring a sense of shame upon him that she considered an ample punishment for his awful choice of woman and his decision to act as though he had no children once they were out of his immediate proximity. He would live with the shame of this, and the shame of knowing that everyone back in Blackpool would be pointing and staring at him, branding him no more than a no-good ruffian’s father, the terrible Dave Oswald. He would despise it, and, more importantly, his new wife would despise it, and Clara managed a small smile of bitterness at the thought. After all his failings as a father, it seemed a fitting sentence for him to endure. 

But then… Bonnie. Clara wished wholeheartedly that her sister hadn’t been taken into custody, and that she’d been able to meet with her face-to-face one final time. Her arms ached at the memory of her sister’s embrace, and the smile slipped from her face as she realised she would be condemned to living without that for the next… well, she didn’t know how many years, but there would be no physical or emotional solace to be found from her sister for the duration, that much was for sure. She had saved Bonnie’s soul, and saved her from this fate, but at the cost of a final meeting. Her own stupidity and her own stubbornness had robbed them both of that final goodbye, and, at that thought, she began to cry again, quietly and without hope. 

“Hey. Excuse me.” 

The voice was soft, and for a moment Clara was certain that she’d imagined it.

“Hey, Miss Oswald? Excuse me?”

Clara let out a strangled yelp of hysteria. Whatever and whoever this disembodied voice was, it seemed keen to evoke happier and simpler days.

“What?” she asked, the word slipping out in a far more aggressive tone than she intended, as she looked wildly around her for the source of the voice. “What is it?” 

“I’m outside your cell,” it replied, and the little window in the door slid open, revealing a girl who looked young enough to be one of her students, but who was smiling warmly at her. Clara dimly recalled her from some hours earlier — Sergeant Khan, or something similar. She’d seemed sympathetic towards Clara, and she’d argued in favour of her keeping the blanket. “Hello.” 

“What do you want?” Clara asked in the same angry tone as before, then swallowed thickly and added more contritely: “Sorry. What is it?” 

“I’m ah… I’m not really meant to do this.”

“Do what?” 

“But I’m the custody sergeant on duty, and everyone else has cleared off upstairs to listen to some football match or something boring like that on the radio, so no one’s going to know, are they? And I feel terrible for you, knowing that you’ll likely be apart after this, so I couldn’t just sit by and let you feel rotten.” 

“What are you-” 

There was the sound of a key in the lock, and then the door clanked open, and somehow — impossibly — there was Bonnie, looking exhausted and downtrodden and on the verge of tears. 

“Oh, my god,” Clara breathed, looking from her to the police sergeant and back again. “This… you shouldn’t…” 

“Five minutes,” the sergeant warned gently. “And I’ll be right outside.”

Clara nodded wordlessly as Bonnie stepped inside, and the door slammed shut behind her. 

“You’re…” Clara began, her mouth opening and closing uselessly, before crossing the space between them and flinging her arms around her twin, clinging to her hard enough to hurt. “Oh, my god.” 

She didn’t know which of them began to cry first, but as they held each other and sobbed, Clara cared only about the fact this was to be the last time she would do this — the last time they would be free to do this for a long time, and that every second was precious. 

“I’m sorry,” she said in a rush. “Bonnie, I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry, and this is all going to be alright, I promise you; it’s going to be alright.” 

“How?” Bonnie’s voice wavered as she spoke, and Clara felt her heart break as she realised the extent of her twin’s suffering. “How can you say that when you’ll be in a cell?” 

“Because you won’t be,” Clara pulled away, cupping her sister’s face in her hands. “You’ll be free, and I’ll be making amends for everything I’ve done. That’s what matters, alright? That’s all that matters.” 

“But you…” 

“I’m not important,” Clara shook her head vehemently. “I want you to enjoy being free, alright? I don’t want you to spend so much as one second feeling sorry for me, or sad about me being… well, wherever I end up. I don’t want you to waste your life moping over me and my fate. I want you to live, and I want you to enjoy every second. Can you do that for me?” 

Bonnie nodded miserably, swiping her hand over her eyes.

“I want my visits though, please,” Clara said with a sense of levity she did not truly feel, gritting her teeth and forcing a smile. “No forgetting about me completely. I want to freak out other prisoners when they find out there’s two of me.”

Bonnie let out a strangled laugh that turned into a sob. “Clara, I don’t know how to be in the world without you.” 

“You do. You’ve been doing it for weeks now, haven’t you? Having a life without me.” 

“It wasn’t…” Bonnie closed her eyes and turned her face away. “It wasn’t easy. It was horrible and miserable and crap and-” 

“And it won’t be easy to do it again, but you _can_ do it. You know that, don’t you? You know how strong you are.” 

“What if I don’t want to?” 

“Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that. Why would you even  _think_ that? You have to go out there and live a life. That’s all I ask of you, Bon. Go out there and live a life big enough for both of us. Live a life big enough that Mum will be looking down and thinking that she did OK with at least one of us.”

“But I…” Bonnie’s face crumpled at the mention of their mother. “You know she’d still love you, don’t you? You know there’s no way she’s looking down right now and judging you?” 

“I don’t know,” Clara admitted, her voice wavering. “I don’t like myself very much now, and I’m not sure if she would either.”

“Well, I still love you. You know that, don’t you?” 

“Of course I do,” Clara acquiesced. “Of course I do, and I love you so much, and that’s why I need you to do this for me. I need you to live your best, most beautiful life so I can know that you’re happy.” 

“But you’ll be…” 

“Where I belong. And that’s alright, Bon. It’s where I was always going to end up.”

“I thought I was hypothetically OK with the idea… it always seemed so abstract but I really thought… I really never thought it would hurt this much.”

“I know,” Clara placed her hand over her own heart. “It hurts right here, doesn’t it?” 

Bonnie nodded miserably, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks again.

“I think it’s always going to hurt here, but I love you, and I will be thinking about you all of the time. You and that big old life you’re going to lead.”

Bonnie nodded again. 

“I love you,” Bonnie whispered. “I love you so much, and I’m so sorry for everything.” 

“I’m sorry, too,” Clara murmured, wrapping her arms around her twin and wanting nothing more than to never let go. “I’m so sorry, Bon, for everything I did and everything I said. I will never forgive myself for the time I wasted.” 

“I…” 

The cell door opened, and the sergeant gave them an apologetic, pained smile.

“I’m sorry,” she said with a sad sigh. “But that’s five minutes.” 

“I love you,” Clara told her sister again, giving her a final squeeze and fighting to keep her composure for a few seconds longer. “I love you, and I’m sorry.” 

“I love you,” Bonnie whispered, her voice cracking. “Be brave.” 

Clara nodded as Bonnie stepped away and was ushered outside, the door closing behind her. 

Sinking to the floor with her head in her hands, she began to sob in earnest. She was dimly aware of the window on the door opening again what felt like seconds later, and the concerned eyes of the sergeant appearing in the space. 

“Miss Oswald?” 

“I think,” Clara managed, “that you might need to take the blanket.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the spirit of full transparency, I cried while writing both this and the previous chapter.


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara had been counting on one thing. When it's snatched away, everything starts to fall apart...

Clara had to admit, Petronella Osgood did not look like the sort of composed, dependable person that she would like her solicitor to be. If anything, she seemed more acutely terrified of the police than Clara was — highly strung, nervous, and generally somewhat hysterical — and Clara could only pray to god that the entire thing was some kind of act designed to throw officers and clients alike off the scent regarding her abilities. The only other option was that she was functionally an idiot, but John had recommended her in the small hours of their last morning together, and she trusted his judgement enough to pray that he hadn’t landed her with a dud solicitor. Once she’d got over the weird name, the woman seemed vaguely pragmatic as they sat together in an anonymous grey room, but there was an underlying hint of vulnerability that Clara couldn’t fully interpret, and which she fought to ignore as another subject consumed her attention.

 _John_.

The thought of him stirred up a thousand visceral memories she had been striving to suppress during her hours in custody, and she closed her eyes against the interview room for a moment, trying not to dwell on the image of him. She had given him orders, yes, but whether he followed them was another matter entirely, and she prayed that he would be endeavouring to carry on with his life as normal, perhaps even forcing himself to come to work in the building that had become her temporary prison as she waited to hear whether incarceration would become her more permanent fate. 

“Miss Oswald?” Kate’s voice was cold and hard, jolting her back to the present, and her eyes snapped open at once. It didn’t do well to dally with Kate — she had learnt that the hard way. John’s boss had a temper when she wanted to, and she had already given Clara verbal warnings for insubordination and taking too long to respond to questions as she fought back tears. For that, and for that alone, Clara loathed her — loathed the lack of compassion this woman had for her; loathed the fact that she hadn’t the consideration to think that answering these questions was hard. All Kate saw was a criminal, not a person, and Clara hated that — hated being reduced to someone whose guilt bled out of their pores, and whose crimes may as well have been written on their skin. She was those things, yes, but so much more, and yet Kate only saw what she wanted to see. She had no humanity. She had no kindness. And she had no patience.

Clara couldn’t help but wonder whether John’s interview style was vaguely similar, although she couldn’t imagine it to be. She couldn’t see him huffing and sighing as suspects were offered a cup of tea or a glass of water; she couldn’t see him rolling his eyes and all but groaning aloud as tears spilled down their cheeks. She had been nothing but complicit and facilitating towards Kate, telling her all she wanted to know without holding back — much to Osgood’s considerable chagrin — and yet still Kate seemed to hold her in contempt. Was there not supposed to be some form of reprieve or gratitude for those who confessed to their crimes? Was there not supposed to be some degree of better treatment for those who told the truth? Clara had been raised to value honesty, and she had been taught that the legal system would do the same. And yet… now that she found herself in the heart of it, her honesty seemed to serve only to infuriate. Her struggles to answer questions were met only with impatience and anger, never understanding. It was all anger and judgement, and she supposed that was what she was due, yet it still jarred with her. 

“Miss Oswald?” Kate snapped again, and Clara realised her attention had once again strayed. She blinked hard a few times and focused on the woman sat opposite her with some difficulty. “Back with us, are we?” 

“Sorry,” Clara mumbled, swallowing thickly and trying to look appropriately contrite. “I’m… yeah.”

“As I was saying,” Kate’s lip curled with contempt as she looked down at her file and then back up at Clara. The Detective Superintendent’s mouth was twitching at the corners, and, as she continued, her face broke into a self-satisfied smirk. “Due to your high flight risk and your previous activities, we have decided to place you on remand until such a time that you can be brought before the Magistrates Court.” 

“I…” Clara blinked hard, not fully understanding what Kate was saying. She was still overwhelmed by all the jargon and technical terminology that was being used in her presence, and, while she had heard the word “remand” before, her brain was struggling to connect it to its meaning. “What…” 

“That is absolutely ridiculous,” Osgood snapped, her formerly bumbling manner melting away in an instant as she scowled at Kate with abject fury. “My client has handed herself in to the Metropolitan Police’s custody voluntarily. She has complied with all interview procedures and provided comprehensive statements regarding the charges she faces. She has not been violent or abusive, shown anger or aggression, or behaved in any manner that poses a danger to others. She has exhibited contrition and penance regarding her former activities and a clear desire to face the consequences of her actions. Why would she pose a flight risk when she is here by her own choice?”

“We just want to make absolutely certain,” Kate said, no longer bothering to conceal her smirk. “Given Miss Oswald’s historic behaviour, we can’t take any risks. Returning her to the general populace of London would pose a threat to the city and its inhabitants.” 

“I…” Clara tried to begin. “But…” 

“This is unacceptable!” Osgood all but shouted, getting to her feet and looming over Kate, who seemed wholly unflustered. “Where are you sending her? And what category?” 

“She’ll be put into a Closed Wing, but within a Restricted Status institution.”

“Which institution?” Osgood repeated through gritted teeth, leaning down and narrowing her eyes at Kate. “I must insist you tell me.” 

“HMP Bronzefield.” 

Clara felt the blood freeze in her veins. She knew that name, and she knew what it would symbolise to John — not to mention who was contained within its walls. He would never be able to visit her there — the associations with his past would be too strong, and he would be known to prison staff. She felt the interview room begin to close in on her, her breath coming in short, sharp pants as lights popped in front of her eyes. 

“Can’t…” she managed, reaching for Osgood. “Can’t…” 

That was the last thing she remembered saying before the room went dark.

 

* * *

 

Clara closed her eyes, rolling over on her bunk and trying to suppress the tears that were welling in her eyes. The memories of the previous few hours ate away at her — the panic attack, fainting in the interview room, being transferred back to her cell, and then marched out of the station and into a waiting prisoner transporter. She’d wished fervently that there had been windows, so that she could watch the city slip away from them as they headed out of London, but instead there had only been the cold, grey metal of the small holding bay she’d been allocated, and so she’d focused on staring at that and willed herself to lose consciousness again — anything that meant some small part of her would escape what was coming. 

The transporter came to a halt at last and she’d been bundled out. There had been an impression of a huge, daunting building before she was half-shoved and half-dragged inside and yanked and poked and prodded and pushed and put in uncomfortable prison scrubs, until she was finally put in a cell, awaiting the arrival of the woman she was due to be sharing with. She didn’t think she’d mind the prospect of this — the imprisonment or the itchy clothing or the bleakness of it all — were she alone, but the prospect of having to share her remand time with another human being was terrifying. There would be no freedom to fall apart. No opportunity to cry. Just having to maintain an act at all times, forcing herself to be brave, and she was unsure whether she could face the prospect of that, even if — as Osgood assured her — it would only be for a matter of weeks.

The cell door yawned open and someone entered, the door slamming shut behind them. There was the distinct sensation of being surveyed and judged, and Clara bit back a wave of nausea before rolling over and forcing herself to sit up.

She wasn’t sure what or who she was expecting, but it was not this. Not a bouncing, smiling woman of approximately her height, with bright blonde hair scraped back into a ponytail that almost reached her waist. The stranger didn’t look old enough to have even left school, and yet here she was in Bronzefield at Her Majesty’s pleasure, beaming down at Clara as though she was an old friend.

“Hi!” the stranger enthused, holding out a hand to Clara with an odd air of formality. “I’m Jenny.” 

Clara looked at the proffered hand warily, unaccustomed to such politeness after her 72 hours in police custody. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it and shook it once, before retracting her own hand as though she’d been burned. 

“Clara,” she said simply, unwilling to overshare or assume intimacy where there was none. “Hi.” 

“I cannot tell you,” Jenny plonked down beside her without ceremony, grinning from ear to ear, “how glad I am to have someone new to bunk with. The last woman snored like there was no tomorrow — and I’m not talking polite little ladylike snores. Oh no. I’m talking seismic waves of snoring. Do you snore?” 

“No,” Clara shook her head. “No, I don’t.” 

“Then we’re going to be just fine.” 

“I’m not…” Clara swallowed thickly, feeling disconcerted by the woman’s casual air. “I’m not going to be here long; it might not be much of a reprieve.” 

Jenny looked at her with something akin to pity. “Right,” she said with sincerity, without a hint of condescension. “What are you in for?”

“Urm,” Clara frowned as she struggled to remember the long list of formal charges that Kate had read to her some hours previously, before opting to be succinct: “Robbing lots of rich men by taking them on dates and getting them pissed.”

Jenny’s mouth fell open. “No way,” she said in an awestruck tone, looking at Clara with reverence. “No flipping way. _You’re_ the Impossible Girl?” 

“I suppose I am, yeah,” Clara offered her a weak smile. “Why?” 

“You’re a bloody _legend_ in here. An absolute _icon_. We’d all have done what you did, given half the chance.”

“Oh,” Clara felt a rush of pride, then immediately fought to quash it. Pride in her actions would not help her acquire a lesser sentence. Playing on her notoriety would only serve to hinder her case, not help it. “Really?”

“Yeah!” Jenny enthused, her smile only intensifying. “How’d they get you? God, Saibra isn’t going to _believe_ this, she’ll be so jealous.”

“I confessed,” Clara admitted, feeling embarrassed by the words. 

“You’re joking,” Jenny looked aghast, and some of her enthusiasm melted away. “Why the hell-” 

“I’m a twin,” Clara shrugged. “And they arrested my sister instead of me.” 

“So you confessed to save your sister’s soul, as it were?” Jenny’s look of amazement had returned with new intensity.

“Something like that.”

“Bloody hell. Respect to you for that.” 

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Clara flashed her cellmate a quick smile. “And you? What are you in for?” 

Jenny grimaced, looked suddenly embarrassed, and Clara wondered whether she’d overstepped some kind of unwritten mark by asking. “I, uh…” Jenny looked down at the floor. “Got heavily into breaking and entering. Might have had a few fights with security guards along the way.” 

Clara couldn’t help but feel a rush of affection for this stranger, accompanied by a rush of gratitude to have been paired with someone who seemed entirely unthreatening. It may prove to be a poor appraisal of Jenny’s character, she supposed, but only time would tell, and for now she felt safe with this woman who seemed — for all intents and purposes — to be very similar to herself. 

“Well,” Clara flashed her a grin. “We’ve got plenty to talk about then, haven’t we?”


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John struggles to maintain a façade of normality.

Even if John had wanted to, he couldn’t avoid Clara’s case. Had he not been at work, it may have been a fraction more bearable, but as it was he was dogged by Kate and her cocky, arrogant attitude at having finally brought to justice the Impossible Girl, the self-proclaimed the bane of London’s elite. Kate strutted around the station like she owned the place, and he wanted nothing more than to remind her that she hadn’t caught Clara Oswald of her own volition; hadn’t arrested her in a blaze of glory; instead, Clara had handed herself in and thus her arrogance was misplaced. Instead, he only bit his tongue and forced himself to remain silent as Kate preened and bathed in imagined glory. There was no space for his words, and so he watched and waited and gleaned what snippets he could from colleagues, eavesdropping as he made coffee or used the bathroom or waited at the printer.

He thought, once or twice, about going down to the cells on some pretext or another, trying to catch a glimpse of Clara, but there was no way he would be able to lie that faultlessly or play the part of the aloof detective, and the thought of seeing her in custody almost broke his heart. She would be reduced to a shadow of her former self, as all detainees were, and he couldn’t bear to see her like that. He hoped to god that they were treating her well, and showing a degree of compassion, and yet he knew what Kate was like when she got like this — he’d seen it enough times to have an intimate understanding of how she worked — and so he simply watched, and seethed, and swore to himself when no one could hear him. 

One minute. That was all he wanted with Clara — one minute to check that she was alright, and that she was coping. One minute to tell her he loved her, and to remind her to be strong — not that she needed the words, but the mere act of imparting them might bring them both some comfort. One minute to inhale her smell and hold her close and appreciate her for what might be the final time. Yet, he knew it was an impossibility; he knew it could never be. Instead, he found himself taunted on a daily basis, and he gritted his teeth and endured it as his own penance, the twin to Clara’s own.

There was the never-ending barrage of comments and discussion at work that he was forced to bear, not just from Kate but from other officers, too. There was a sense of gleefulness and jubilation at having finally apprehended the Impossible Girl; a euphoria and giddiness that swept the station and put a spring in everyone’s step, or so it seemed. He forced himself to participate, to smile and swagger and bluster with the rest of them, but inside he wanted nothing more than to lock himself in his office and break down, unable to cope with the sick sense of smugness that came with ensuring a woman’s downfall. It nauseated him — he spent countless hours in the gents heaving into the toilet, tears burning at his eyes as he insisted to any colleagues who might overhear him that he’d eaten a dodgy takeaway, or drank too many beers, or whatever else would uphold the fiction. He could only thank god that Kate was too high on self-congratulation to pay much attention to him, or her suspicions would have been acutely aroused. 

When he left work in the evening, he was bombarded with all the more information about Clara’s case on the news, in the papers, and online. He tried not to read any of it, or watch any of it, but some of it permeated his consciousness. As at the station, there was a sense of celebration in the police having captured Clara and thus putting a stop to her antics, and the rich and famous of London were unabashed in their revelry. There had been three parties in the first twenty-four hours of her incarceration, and John loathed every sick bastard who’d attended each one; loathed them with an intensity that would have frightened him, but instead only made his eyes burn as he went for a long, furious run amongst London’s streets in the depths of night.

The papers were predictably diligent in their unkindness — they pored over Clara’s life and picked it to shreds, dissecting her family life and her relationships and her education and her jobs in a way that made him revile journalists with a newfound fervour. There was mention of Bonnie here and there, but he could tell that she was as sickened by all this as he was — the absence of her comments on the matter underlined that — yet there were interviews with Clara’s father and stepmother, denouncing her for what she had done, and he resolved that if he ever had the misfortune to meet them then he would tell them precisely what he thought of their contempt for the sanctity of family and protecting their own. 

It was not until the end of the second day that Clara was in custody that John had the idea of contacting Bonnie and discussing matters with her. Nothing ostentatious or overt or overly self-aggrandising, just a quiet phone call in the evening as he sat on the sofa, as though they weren’t both pining for someone they loved. He dialled the number he’d scrawled into his notebook some months prior, then listened to the line ring. 

“Hello?” Bonnie answered after the second ring, her voice hard and unfeeling. “If this is another fucking journalist, you can fucking fuck right off, you c-” 

“It’s John,” he said quickly, feeling his heart turn over in his chest as he realised precisely how much she sounded like her sister. More clipped, perhaps, and more measured, but enough to hurt. “John Smith. Clara’s… ah…”

“I know who you are. We met, remember?”

“Ah,” he felt himself blush at the memory of frightening her in a backstreet, and then letting her go. “Yes.”

“What can I do for you?” 

“I just…” he sighed, realising abruptly that he didn’t know what precisely he wanted, only that he’d wanted to share some kind of space with her, even if it was over the phone. “I, urm…” 

“You wanted to talk to someone else who doesn’t despise her,” Bonnie said gently, and he realised that she was right. It was exhausting to be faced by the constant deluge of vitriol towards Clara, and Bonnie was perhaps one of the only people in the country who shared his sentiments. “I understand.”

“I just… I want you to know I love her, and I’m trying… I’m doing the best I can for her. I got her a solicitor — one of the best, actually — and I just want her to be safe, and to come home, and we can go from there.” 

“I know,” Bonnie acquiesced, then said, more sombrely: “I know. We both want her home, but I don’t think… from what the papers are saying… I’m not sure how likely that is, John. I thought you’d know that.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Come on, she’s a bit high-risk, isn’t she? What with everything she’s done? I want her home as much as you do, John, but I’m not holding out much hope.” 

“Don’t say that,” he said numbly, shaking his head. “Don’t say that, why would you say that? Of course, she’ll come home. She’ll be granted bail just like anyone else. 

“Have you heard anyone at work say that? Have you heard your boss confirm it? Because I don’t think she will. And then… well, I’ll be visiting her, like I promised her I would, so I can pass on any messages you might have, alright?”

“I…” he couldn’t find the words he needed, his anger burning hot and raw inside him as he realised that she was right — Kate had never mentioned bail, and thus his chance to have Clara home, to see her and hold her again, was a fantasy that would never be fulfilled. His eyes burned with tears and he muttered out some asinine farewell before ending the call and smashing his fists into the sofa cushions beside him in fury. He’d been holding onto that final shred of hope — that Clara would be granted bail. Without that… well, without that, he had nothing.

He was without hope. Without witness. Without reward.

 

* * *

 

When it came down to it, he discovered Clara’s fate not from Kate, nor from anyone at work, nor even from Bonnie, but from a passer-by in the street. A sharply dressed businessman holding aloft a copy of the _Evening Standard_ as they strutted down the street in the evening twilight — undoubtedly heading back to some expensive apartment in West London after an exhausting day extorting the lower classes, John thought to himself bitterly — and the headline caught his attention at once. 

_Impossible Girl denied bail_

And below that in smaller, but no less important letters:

 _Considered ‘too high risk’ by Met_ — _see page 3 for full story_

Without thinking, he snagged the paper from the businessman’s hands, setting off at a rapid pace as curses bounced off his back, and only when he had retreated to the relative safety of a side alleyway did he allow himself to open the newspaper. Page 3 was dominated by photographs of Clara — one he recognised from her Facebook of happier times; one that he suspected may be from somewhere deep within the Coal Hill website; and then one of her, looking tired and haggard, taken from afar as she was bundled into a prisoner transporter. And yet, it was not these photos that caused his heart to stop. 

Below them was a large photograph of a horribly familiar building, captioned with the mocking tagline: “Her new home.” 

HMP Bronzefield. 

 _Of all the places to send her,_ he thought to himself. _Of all the prisons, all the units, all the detention centres. The entire country, and the entire prison service, but it had to be Bronzefield. Of course it did. How could I not see this coming?_  

And then his next thought came, and he felt his world stop. 

_Missy knows who she is._

The thought was accompanied by panic, white-hot and insidious, and he scrunched the paper up and shoved it under his arm as he took off at a run. 

Bonnie had made him an offer. He needed to see if she was a woman of her word.

 

* * *

 

_Dear Clara,_

_I know that things now seem bleak. I know that you’re probably terrified and feeling very alone and uncertain and worried about the future, but I want you to know that I’m thinking of you, every minute of every day. I’m not being sad_ — _I remember my promise, don’t you worry!_ — _but I can’t help myself thinking about you, especially when your photo is all over the news and the papers and social media. I think you’d hate quite a lot of the pictures they’re using_ — _I don’t know if you get to read the papers in there or not, but ask Bonnie what she thinks and I’m sure she’ll agree with me on this. There’s some real clangers, including you at university when you were blonde, and I know you’d be angry about the terrible pictures if nothing else._

 _Sorry, I’m rambling, but it’s really bothering me how they’re depicting you. You’re beautiful, and they’re not doing you justice with their photo choices. Perhaps it would be too hard to make people hate you if they knew how beautiful you really are, inside and out, or perhaps it just doesn’t fit their narrative. I don’t care; journalists are shits. I remember you the way I know you, which is perfect, and that’s what counts. (And, for the record, so does Bonnie, and so do Amy and Rory and Martha. I’m reliably informed they’re very much on your side; Amy is ready to start several riots in a bid to get you out of there. I’m half-inclined to recruit the Scots to help_ — _they all think you’re a legend up there.)_

 _It’s strange being without you after so long together. I used to so enjoy being on my own, but now it seems wrong to wake up alone, go to work, and then come home to an empty flat. I miss your presence, and your touch, and your words. I miss being with you, full stop. I wish you could have come home_ — _even if it was to your house, not to my place_ — _so at least we could have had these days together, ready to face the future. It hurts me to think of you in that place and I pray that they are kind and compassionate to you, or hold you in some degree of esteem so that you do not face the true horrors of what that place can be. My sources tell me you are on a reasonably safe wing, and that brings me some degree of comfort, but be careful, please. I can’t bear to think of anyone attacking you or harming you, so please, please, be careful, love._

_I miss you with every breath I take, and I long for the day I will see you again. I love you, I love you, I love you, and I always will._

_Yours forever,_

_John x_

Clara looked down at the piece of paper that Bonnie had thrust into her hands over an hour ago, her eyes still wet with tears as she read and re-read it for the thousandth time. 

“I miss you,” she mouthed into the half-light of the cell. “I love you, too.”


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara has a decision to make...

Clara would always recall the absolute incredulity with which she looked at Osgood as the woman suggested that she plead not guilty. There was a brief moment of wondering whether her solicitor had taken leave of her sanity completely, before she realised that this was, of course, the crashing, inevitable culmination of the words that had tumbled from her mouth over the previous few days of discussions. 

She had never intended to talk quite so openly to… well, anyone involved in the justice system, not after she had delivered her damning confession to DSU Stewart.

She had kept her guard up, at least a little, around her cellmate, because, even if Jenny seemed warm and kind and caring, Clara wasn’t stupid, and she’d seen enough _Orange is the New Black_ to know that nobody in prison was what they seemed, especially not when that prison was populated entirely by women. Still, Jenny appeared reasonably empathic and compassionate, and so Clara chatted to her about mundane things such as the weather or the news — what little news they were allowed access to, at any rate — and half-forgotten books and TV shows, and they seemed to get along well enough. She had not yet found herself stabbed or strangled in her sleep, which she supposed was a bonus, and she had been left in peace to shower and shuffle about the exercise yard with little enthusiasm, soaking up precious snatches of summer sun. Her reputation appeared to have preceded her and she was treated with something akin to grudging awe by her peers — indeed, from time to time one of her fellow prisoners would approach her and offer her a wide grin and some words about men and how much they deserved everything she had done to them. She never agreed with these women; never said a word that could be interpreted as admitting culpability, but instead smiled and nodded and tried to appear somewhat mysterious and aloof, in the hopes it would discourage future fans from doing the same, and gradually the interest died down.

She had yet to see the one occupant of the prison that she was dreading encountering. She presumed that Missy would be being kept on a far more secure wing than her own, well away from women charged with somewhat less-serious crimes such as herself and Jenny, and for that and that alone, she was grateful. No matter how dangerous the Ministry of Justice might consider her to be, they considered Missy to be a class above that, and she prayed nightly that there would never be cause for the two of them to meet. From all that John had said of the woman, Clara knew her to be dangerously unhinged, and she had no desire or inclination to find out more than that from first-hand experience. It was better to stay safe and invisible, and to fly under the radar of all involved in her incarceration. If Missy knew she was here, then so be it, but the sheer robustness and hostility of the building’s architecture reassured her — the corridors were starkly empty, the exercise yard carefully devoid of privacy, and the guards were stationed close enough together to promote a feeling of safety that she couldn’t quite put into words. 

Clara knew what they wanted her to do, of course. They wanted her to brag; to court her fans; to kick off at the staff. They wanted her to grow angry and defiant; they wanted her to show the alter ego that she had long taken on dates and brought out as she robbed the men she had targeted. She knew this, and she knew how it would be used against her, and so she refused to play their game. Instead, she was docile and meek, subservient and placid, and she could sense the disappointment of the guards as they walked her from her cell to her meetings with Osgood; her only moments of semi-normality that she was able to enjoy. She was placed in something resembling a conference room for hours on end; a room with cheap, stained carpet on the floor, real metal chairs — even if they were uncomfortable and bolted to the floor — and a large TV screen screwed securely to one wall. There was a window, almost as tall as her, with bars on the outside and tinted glass, but still she could see outside and over the walls of the prison; still she could see the town that lay adjacent to the facility and try to pretend that this would all soon be over and she would be out there again, enjoying her freedom. She would stand in the window as she talked to Osgood, her forehead resting against the glass, and over time that became normal — it seemed easier to let the words fall from her lips if she wasn’t looking at the other woman, and so she would gaze out at the view, sometimes obscured by rain or fog, and talk, and talk, and talk.

She had never intended to tell Osgood any of it — not about what happened at university, nor her financial situation, nor the earliest of her dates, and how close she had come to serious injury. But once she had started to talk, it was impossible to stop, and she found herself in tears as she let the words come, closing her eyes and refusing to sob as she resigned herself to giving the fullest picture of her situation she possibly could. 

Osgood never judged her, and for that she was grateful. There were never any gasps, nor contrite words of sympathy or pity. There was never any shock or disbelief at what she recounted. Merely the silent tapping of her fingers on her laptop keys as she recorded Clara’s words faithfully, and for that Clara was grateful – she did not have any desire to court the dramatic or the flamboyant, and she did not want to feel any more like a pariah than she already was. 

She had certainly never wanted to tell Osgood about John, and yet her treacherous mouth had betrayed her there, forever working ahead of her brain, which struggled to keep up. A comment had stumbled over her lips and, before she could stop it, the dam had burst and she  _had_ cried then, as the words had flooded from her unbidden and she told the truth at last. There had been a small pause; the tiniest of delays in Osgood’s typing; and then it had resumed, measured and regular as ever, and there had again been no judgement or derision from the woman. No emotions. Only facts. She liked that about her solicitor. Never the subjective; only the empirical.

Still, the eventual suggestion of a not guilty plea felt counterintuitive, and she told Osgood so. 

“I’m sorry,” Clara said after what felt like an eternity of stunned silence, the words sitting heavily between them. She had come away from the window for this conversation, and so she placed her elbows on the table and affixed her solicitor with a look of great bemusement. “You want me to what now?”

“Plead not guilty,” Osgood leaned back in her chair, clicking her pen open and shut in a way that Clara found uniquely irritating. She considered reaching for the pen and taking it, but undoubtedly Osgood would flinch at the movement, and Clara didn’t know how she would deal with the fear that might taint her expression. “You have a strong legal case.” 

“I… what?” 

“Well,” Osgood looked over at her laptop, then down at the notebook she kept additional scribbles in. “Given your first traumatic incident at university, you would be able to argue that it triggered Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in you, which would influence future interactions with men. We can certainly get you a consultation with a number of psychiatrists who can confirm that, and can diagnose you in our favour. We can also argue that the PTSD, combined with your financial situation upon moving to London, contributed to those initial poor decisions regarding money, and then your early experiences of, ah… _dating_ in the capital only cemented in your mind that men posed a threat, and caused you to take more extreme measures in self-defence. Battered Wife Syndrome, and all.”

“But I don’t have PTSD. Or Battered Wife Syndrome.” 

“That you know of.”

“No, I really don’t have PTSD.” 

“Clara, this will potentially get you out of — or at least reduce — a very lengthy prison sentence. Isn’t that what you want?” 

“I mean…” 

“Don’t answer that. Additionally to the PTSD, there is the matter of DI Pink-” 

“What about him?” Clara all but snarled, immediately on the defensive. “Why is he relevant?”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” Osgood said calmly. “We’re on the same side, remember.” 

“Sorry,” Clara mumbled, feeling genuinely contrite. “What about DI Pink?” 

“Well, due to his involvement with you, the case is inherently flawed on the police’s side. We don’t know the extent of the evidence he deliberately overlooked, or what he might have destroyed or buried. The same can be said regarding DCI Smith, so the police’s case is extremely tenuous.” 

“I don’t want DCI Smith brought into this,” Clara set her jaw. “He’s not to be dragged into it.” 

“Clara, regardless of how you feel about him, you need to understand that his involvement with you provides very strong grounds for the case being acquitted.” 

“But it… but he…” she couldn’t find the words to express herself; couldn’t find the words to say that she couldn’t bear the thought of everyone knowing. She had nothing to be ashamed of and nothing to fear for herself, but knowing what it would do for John’s career was crushing. Could she bring herself to do that? Could she really destroy everything he was for the sake of her own liberty? She needed to talk to him; she needed to hear his voice and talk it over with him; and yet she knew it could not be. 

“You don’t have to decide now,” Osgood said gently. “You can think it over, but I’ll be back tomorrow to discuss it further.” 

“OK,” Clara breathed, closing her eyes. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

Clara didn’t sleep that night. She lay on her back and stared at the underside of Jenny’s bed above her, running endless variations of the same conversation over and over again in her head, desperately trying to ascertain what John would want her do and say and plead. She had mental arguments with herself, trying to roleplay his part and her own; she had long discussions and tried to put herself in his shoes, making the choices she thought he would make. She thought about all they had shared and the words they had intimated to each other in the darkness before the dawn of their final night; sentiments and wishes whispered into the twilight of their bedroom, limbs entwined as they wished aloud for a life together in which they were free to be themselves.

Would this be the best way to do that? Perhaps, if John were unshackled from his ties to the police, he would be at liberty to be with her. Unencumbered by the trappings and expectations of his role, they would be able to be together at last — she would be free, she dreamed, and he would be able to be with her openly. Perhaps they could move somewhere remote and quiet, and well away from nosy locals or media coverage or anything else that might taint attitudes towards the two of them. Not that such things mattered to her, but she would like a quiet life with John, and people’s perceptions of her would undoubtedly impede that.

Her only stumbling block came from knowing how much John adored his job. She knew how much it meant to him. She had seen the photographs on his wall at home of his time at Hendon and as a young PC in his first uniform; had seen the news clippings and the medals he kept hidden in a box under the bed. Could she rip his vocation away from him for the sake of their love? What would mean more to him in the long term — her, or the countless criminals he had put away? A quiet, bitter part of her tried to argue that he was close to retirement and a few years would not make much difference, but would he still be entitled to his pension if she exposed him like this? How would they live? She would surely be unemployable, regardless of the outcome of any trial that may come to pass. 

As the pale light of dawn filtered through the high cell window, casting long, striped shadows across the concrete floor, Clara took a deep breath and made her decision.

 

* * *

 

“So, Miss Oswald,” the magistrate looked down at her charge sheet, and then back up at her. A smirk was playing around the corners of his mouth, and Clara fought to keep her temper in the face of his contempt. He was the kind of man she would once have cheerfully eviscerated, and then robbed, but now that was not an option. Now she must be calm, and composed, and cool, and convince him of her sincerity. “Although I fear I may already know the answer to this, how do you plead?” 

Clara raised her head, and with as much defiance as she could manage, she said, calmly: 

“Not guilty.”


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John hits rock bottom, and receives support from an unlikely source.

John was still caught in a haze of sleep when the knocking first penetrated his consciousness. Loud and obnoxiously insistent, it seemed both incredibly far away and yet impossibly near, and, as he dragged himself into an approximately vertical position, he realised it was coming from the general vicinity of his front door. It was not the normal, polite knock of the postman or the local Jehovah’s Witnesses; no, this was an aggressive, incessant pounding that seemed to resonate deep inside his head, and he swore under his breath. Unbidden, his thoughts flashed to Clara, and his eyes flicked over to the clock, a curse tumbling over his lips as he realised he had fallen asleep some hours ago and undoubtedly missed the outcome of her first hearing. His heart soared for one brief moment — perhaps the insistent knocker was her, released on bail and free to be with him for however long she may have been granted as a brief reprieve — before reality set back in and he realised that there was only one of two people it could, in fact, be. 

“John Smith, if you don’t open this fucking door, I will call out the Drugs Squad and have them smash it in.”

John groaned as the words filtered through the wood to him, confirming his suspicions, and he hauled himself up off the sofa before heading into the hallway and yanking the door open. Kate was stood on the other side, her fist still held aloft in preparation to continue her unholy, thunderous knocking, and she looked momentarily unbalanced as he caught her unawares. 

“Fucking finally,” she muttered, regaining her composure and folding her arms across her chest. “What were you doing? Took you bloody long enough.” 

“Having a nap.” 

“You slept through that devious little bitch’s hearing?” Kate blinked at him with bemusement, eyebrows raising as she visibly judged him. “Wow. And here I was thinking you gave a shit.”

“I _do_ give a shit,” he shot back, indicating she should step inside and standing back to permit her entry to his flat. “But I was out chasing one of the Camberwell Five suspects until the small hours, and then I had to fill in a mountain of paperwork because he drove into the back of my car, so I conked out about…” he checked his watch. “Five hours ago.” 

“Well,” Kate headed into the lounge uninvited, plonking down on the sofa he had recently vacated and looking distinctly and ominously pissed off. “The little bitch has pleaded not guilty.”

John felt his heart lurch. “She’s… what?” 

“She’s pleaded not guilty. The devious little cow actually stood up in front of the magistrate and pleaded not guilty. Fuck knows what the defence think they’ve got to give her the jump on us; massive bloody balls, if nothing else — half of London want to burn her at the stake.”

“Seems a bit harsh, Kate.”

“Not really. You humiliate a bunch of rich men and rob them blind, you face the consequences. And the consequences are that they’re fucked off. Really fucked off, actually; you heard about the parties they’ve been throwing?” 

“Yes,” John mumbled, loathing every bastard who’d attended. He took a seat beside his superior officer and tried to appear more relaxed than he felt. “Yes, I did.” 

“I thought about going to one, but it would’ve compromised the case,” Kate sighed, and John tried to resist the urge to evict her from his flat. “I want to know what the hell the defence think they’ve got that might acquit her. It’s got to be big. Mental problem, maybe? She seemed a bit unhinged while we were interviewing her; really cold, really distant. Maybe she’s got multiple personalities or something. Could be that she’s a total fruitcake, but it makes no odds — she’s not worming her way out of this.”

John made the most non-committal noise he could manage, fighting the urge to clench his fists. His knuckles were turning slowly white as the tension in his hands increased and he rearranged his position, folding his arms and tucking his hands into his armpits to disguise the trembling that was beginning to take hold of him. 

“The other alternative,” Kate continued, affixing John with a penetrating gaze that made him swallow thickly, “is that they know something we don’t know about the investigation. Something about us.” 

“Oh?” John managed to arch an eyebrow quizzically, his heart starting to race in his chest. “Such as?” 

“You’ve always seemed very bothered about her, John. Always terribly concerned, and terribly dutiful. Terribly… well, some might even say obsessive. I’ve heard a lot of officers bandying that word about.” 

“About… me?”

“Oh, yes. ‘Like a dog with a bone,’ I believe some of them said. You just wouldn’t let it go. Wouldn’t leave her be. On a knife edge about the mere mention of her,” she paused, then continued in a cunning voice: “Turning up in hospital just after one of her failed attempts at a robbery. Letting her… slip through your fingers, time and time again. That isn’t you, John. You’re a better copper than that. You’re a better man than that. So I want you to be straight with me: were you fucking her?” 

“I…” John’s head began to spin at the directness of the question. “What?” 

“Come on, John, it’s a yes/no question. Were you fucking her? Is that what they’re hanging this case on?” 

“Kate… I…” 

“Come on. Were you fucking her? Were you stupid enough to fuck that devious, conniving little bitch? Were you stupid enough to think it meant something that she was fucking you, and that it wasn’t all just a clever, well-thought-out ploy?” 

“Kate-” 

“What was it, did she promise you dirty things? Things you only ever dreamt about doing with a real woman one day? Was she good in bed? And more importantly: was it worth it? Was it worth betraying everything you stand for, just for the sake of getting your dick wet?” 

“ _Kate!_ ” John roared, getting to his feet and standing in the centre of the room, chest rising and falling as he allowed himself to hyperventilate. Fury pulsed around his veins, white-hot and all-consuming, and he clenched his fists at his sides, no longer caring about being overt. There was no point in denying anything — if Kate hadn’t been absolutely convinced before, she surely was now. 

“I knew it,” Kate said quietly, her face a mask of disappointment. “I fucking knew it.” She got to her feet, affixing him with a look of great pity. “You stupid bastard. You stupid, stupid bastard. You could never resist a pretty face, could you?" 

“Don’t you _dare-_ ” 

“I’m not daring to do anything. You were the one that dared to fuck one of London’s Most Wanted. You were the one that made that decision. God, you stupid, selfish prick. If you’ve single-handedly destroyed this case, then I will ruin you. Do you understand me?” 

“It wasn’t just me,” John blurted in desperation. “It was DI Pink as well.”

Kate arched an eyebrow, letting out a yelp of bitter mirth. “Well. Maybe he was more interesting than I ever gave him credit for. But he’s dead, and the fault is therefore squarely on your shoulders. So, I will ask again. If you have destroyed this case, then I – will – _ruin_ – you. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” John choked out. “Yes, I understand you.”

“Good. Consider yourself suspended, effective immediately.” 

“Right.” 

“Good. I’ll see myself out.”

 

* * *

 

Bonnie looked somewhat surprised, upon arriving at John’s flat, to find herself pulled into a bone-crushingly tight hug. There was palpable tension thrumming through her body for the first few seconds, before she seemed to understand what John was in desperate need of and relaxed a modicum.

“I’m not her,” she mumbled into his chest, wrapping her arms around him all the same, and he managed a tearful nod of understanding. “Just… keep that in mind.” 

“I know,” he closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair all the same, trying to pretend for a few precious seconds that she was, in fact, the person he needed most in the world. “I know, Bon.”

He hadn’t known who else to call after Kate had left. He’d paced the flat and smashed his fist into the wall, until his knuckles had screamed in protest and blood was smeared across the emulsion. He’d screamed into the sofa cushions, furious at Kate and himself and the force and his job. He’d had to press down on his already-agonised knuckles, finger by finger, to stop himself from calling the prison and asking to speak to Clara. And then he’d realised that there was the next best alternative and called Bonnie instead. 

He let go of Bonnie with the utmost reluctance, and she affixed him with a sad smile. 

“Not holding up so well?” she asked, then before he could reply, her expression became mischievous. “I’m happy to hug you, but nothing more. Unlike my sister, I’m not so much into men, and also: she might actually murder me. Which would be no mean feat, from prison, but I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“I…” he chuckled a little, despite himself. “I know, and I don’t expect that of you, not ever. I just…” he sighed, dropping his gaze to his damaged left hand, and Bonnie followed his eyeline, inhaling sharply.

“Hey,” she said gently, looking back up at his face, her eyes wide with empathy. “That looks sore, what happened?” 

“I urm…” he swallowed thickly. “My boss figured it out — about me and Clara. She thinks if the case collapses it’ll be my fault. I’ve been suspended, with immediate effect.”

“Doesn’t explain the h-” 

“I hit a wall. A few times, actually.” 

“Is it broken?” 

“No, just a bit smeary.” 

“Not the wall,” she rolled her eyes in a way that was so much like Clara that it felt like being stabbed. “Your hand.”

“Oh,” John blinked at her. “Probably not. It’s never broken when it’s happened before.”

“Go and sit on the sofa and I’ll find something to ice it with. And then I’ll wipe the wall down, because, if the décor in here is fully low-budget horror movie, then that’s not going to help your mental state.”

“It isn’t that bad.”

“John, just sit on the sofa and don’t argue, alright?” Bonnie affixed him with a stern look. “You called me, so you want my help, so do what I say.”

“Right,” he acquiesced, taking a seat as directed. “Sorry.” 

Bonnie disappeared into the kitchen, leaving him alone with his thoughts. His fury had mellowed now, assisted by his unhealthy coping mechanisms, but his sorrow and his terror still clung to him, impeding on his breathing and turning his stomach with each inhale and exhale he took. He clenched his fists automatically and then yelped, and, as Bonnie returned with a packet of frozen peas, a tea towel and his first aid kit, she shot him a bemused look.

“That won’t help,” she noted, opening the green box and extracting a disinfecting wipe. “Stay still, alright?” 

John braced himself as she swiped it over his knuckles, letting out only a muted hiss of complaint, before she wrapped the frozen peas in the tea towel and rested it on his hand. 

“There.” 

“Thanks,” he muttered, his fingers beginning to go blissfully numb. “So, urm. She… pleaded not guilty.” 

“Yes, she did.”

“Did you know?” 

“That she was going to? No. I’m not surprised, though. It’s not like her to just roll over and take something lying down, including this.” 

“Do you think she’ll ah… do you think she’s in with a chance?” 

“I do.” 

“Why?” 

“Because they can argue that she’s been in a bad state of mind since… well, university. Because they can argue that she was driven by that, and wasn’t thinking logically because of it. And because… well, because of you.”

“Me?” he frowned, unsure whether she was being accusatory or empirical. 

“Yes, you. How can they build a case against her when she was sleeping with the officer in charge of said case? It totally undermines the entire operation. Remember that case a few years back — where was it? Broad-somewhere?”

“Broadchurch?” 

“Yeah. Case got acquitted, defendant walked free,” Bonnie looked increasingly confident as she spoke. “It was partially down to his wife, a copper, attacking him in the interview rooms following his arrest, and suggestions of an affair between investigating officers.” 

“What does that have to do with Clara?”

“The police fucked up, and he walked. You — well, the Met — have fucked up, so I think she’s in with a chance.” 

“Really?” John asked, hardly daring to let himself hope. 

“Yes, really,” Bonnie smiled warmly at him. “Really, really.” 

“Thank you,” he whispered, reaching over with his good hand and laying it over hers. “I mean it. Thank you.”


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara tries to prepare herself for the trial, but Bonnie has news...

The date for Clara’s trial was set, and, somehow, having the certainty and finality of a date made the waiting worse. Clara made herself a chart, neatly measured and ruled and labelled, that she kept tucked into a book under her pillow, and she counted down the days in the same way she had once, as a child, counted down to her birthday or Christmas or the first day of school. And yet this time there was no excitement building in her chest, only apprehension. No enthusiasm, only anxiety. 

When there had been no definitive timeframe to follow, Clara could pretend that none of this was happening; there was no sense of urgency and no sense of panic to her meetings with her legal representation, and far fewer anxiety attacks in the dead of night. But now, with the date hanging over her, Osgood seemed to go into overdrive, working frantically during their meetings and eventually calling in her colleague to work alongside her, as they would be the one to represent Clara during her trial. 

Clara was unsure what to make of Liz Decimam, the self-assured and somewhat intimidating woman who was to plead her case in court. She was the antithesis of Osgood — brashly assertive and bold, loud and confident — and yet, somehow, Clara still preferred her solicitor, meek and quiet though she was. Osgood seemed to intuit when to ask a question and when to remain silent and simply let Clara talk; when to probe and when to leave something be. Osgood seemed to understand when and how she needed to apply pressure to Clara or to key witnesses, and when to allow them time to breathe and gather their thoughts. Liz possessed none of the same aptitude — she was pushy and abrasive, pressing Clara to answer her questions and asking for details that made Clara’s very being cringe; shame and humiliation crawling over her skin, ice cold and uncomfortable.

“I promise you,” Osgood said in a low voice one evening as she packed her laptop and notebooks away. Liz had breezed out of the room some time earlier, talking loudly on the phone about her plans for that evening and checking her watch every few seconds as she went. “She might seem… unorthodox, but she gets results.” 

“She’s… I don’t know,” Clara admitted, sighing and running a hand through her hair. She had a sinking feeling every time she thought about Liz standing alongside her in court, and she tried not to ruminate on the mental image for long periods at a time. “She just seems very… in-your-face. Why can’t you represent me instead?” 

“You know why,” Osgood said gently, her eyes wide and apologetic. “I can’t represent you in a Crown Court; I don’t have the knowledge or the skillset or the qualifications.”

“So, why are you still here? Why are you still gathering facts? Why are you getting my hopes up and being kind when you know you’re just going to have to let me down?” Clara snapped, then took a deep breath and mumbled in contrition: “Sorry.” 

“You can’t keep lashing out at me,” Osgood reminded her, raising her eyebrows in a chastising manner. “I know you’re under a lot of pressure, but that kind of attitude isn’t going to help in court. You need to keep a level head and not just go on the defensive. You are the _defendant_. Not the defensive, prickly person you can be at the moment.”

“Sorry,” Clara said again, her cheeks flushing maroon. “But why are you here? There’s nothing you can do in court — you said so yourself.” 

“I can support Liz from behind the scenes, but I can’t sit in there with you. Besides, I’m not going to just… abandon you. Not with Liz, at any rate — you’ve seen what a force of nature she can be. Better that I’m here reining her in and keeping her in check, for both of your sakes.” 

Clara chuckled. “Thank you,” she said after a moment, stumbling over the words and feeling wholly awkward, but needing to say them all the same. “For all this. I mean, I know I’m paying you, but… I don’t think a lot of people would have touched my case with a bargepole.” 

“You fascinate me,” Osgood admitted reluctantly, looking down at the table, and it was her turn now to blush. “Why you did what you did; who you targeted. It intrigued me, because I knew that there were reasons there that went far beyond the superficial. People aren’t just the persona or the character they present to the world; no, they’re so much more than that, so much more complex. Nobody just acts for the sake of acting — there’s motivations and memories and experiences that have shaped their chosen course of action, and I wanted to try to understand yours.” 

“And do you? Now?” 

“A little,” Osgood shrugged, making a “so-so” gesture with her hand. “More so every day. I don’t exonerate it or excuse it, but I understand.” 

“I know.” 

“How are you feeling about the trial?” 

“Scared,” Clara swallowed, hating how small and fragile her voice sounded. She wouldn’t have admitted this to Liz or to Jenny or to anyone else inside these walls, but she was afraid. “Really bloody scared. They’re going to come down on me like a ton of bricks, aren’t they?” 

“It certainly seems like they’re going to be aggressive, yes. From what you’ve described of the superior officer on the case, she sounds like she’s going to be one to go after you, and go after you hard. I’m not sure about witness statements from anyone else — the glitterati might be glad to see the back of you, but I think they’re a lot more frightened of the mere memory of you than they’re letting on, and whether any of them will have the balls to take the stand and recount in detail how you played them, I don’t know. I’m hoping their fragile egos are going to cause them some issues with that, because that’ll be a mark in your favour — lack of witnesses for the prosecution.” 

“What about…” Clara took a deep breath, clenching her fists in her lap. “What about John?” 

“What about John, exactly?”

“Is he likely to be called as a witness?”

“It’s a possibility, yes.” 

“By us or by them?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” Osgood let out a long breath, grimacing as she did so. “It would be beneficial for us if he did, given the nature of your relationship, but, ultimately, it’s Liz’s decision to make.”

“Does he have to do it?” 

“Do what?” 

“If he’s called, does he have to take the stand?” 

“It would be helpful if he did, yes. Otherwise it makes us appear to be lacking in credibility, and could be seen as an indirect admission of complicity on his part.” 

“I don’t…” Clara frowned, not understanding what her solicitor was insinuating. “What…”

“Some witnesses, in cases like these, have refused to attend court and testify because they fear that, by doing so, they will have negative links and associations made between them and the defendant. And yet… by not doing so, they actually cement that link, and they don’t have the ability to even give their account of proceedings. So, if he refused to testify, it wouldn’t protect him from being associated with you or from your relationship being scrutinised; it would only mean that he would be unable to offer his side of the story.”

“I could tell you our story.”

“You are — no offence, Clara — the one on trial here, and so your account of matters is not going to be taken to be the god-honest truth.” Osgood looked apologetic. “We need to hear from those around you. We need their sides of the story. We need to understand you, from the outside looking in, as well as the inside looking out. We need to see what you’re like when you’re not the Impossible Girl.” 

“So, you need John.” 

“Yes,” Osgood said with resignation. “Yes, we do.”

 

* * *

 

“So,” Bonnie leaned back in her uncomfortable plastic chair, affixing Clara with an unreadable expression and folding her arms across her chest in a way that signalled to Clara that she was not going to like whatever her sister was about to say. “I’ve ah… I’ve got some news for you.”

“What sort of news?” Clara frowned, immediately suspicious. “Is it about Dad? Because he’s already rung me and told me that I’m dead to him, so I don’t want or need to know if I’ve been written out of the will.” 

“Babe, I think we _both_ got written out of the will when we told him Linda was a cow the night before he got married. No, it isn’t about Dad, and, additionally, Dad can fuck off.”

Clara snorted, then recalled the seriousness of her twin’s expression and tone, becoming abruptly sombre. “OK, you’re making me nervous now. What is it?” 

“It’s John,” Bonnie sighed heavily. “I’ve ah… I’ve been seeing him.” 

“You’ve…” Clara blinked hard, unsure whether she was understanding correctly what Bonnie was insinuating. “Been seeing him?” 

“Yeah, a few times a week. We-” 

“Are you trying to tell me that you’re fucking my partner?” Clara blurted, her gaze hardening and her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “You always told me you weren’t into men, you lying-”

“Clara!” Bonnie half-yelled, and it was then that Clara realised that she’d got to her feet and was looming over her sister menacingly. “Clara, no, that’s not what I mean at all! I’m sorry, I phrased it badly, sit the hell back down or they’ll-” 

“I know how it works in here,” Clara snarled, dropping back into her seat with the utmost reluctance and keeping her hands balled tightly in her lap. “Don’t presume to tell me, because you have no idea. What the hell _do_ you mean, if you haven’t been fucking him?”

“I mean, he’s been calling me now and again and asking me to go over and we just… talk about things.” 

“What kind of things?” Clara asked through clenched teeth, her heart thudding in her chest. “How often?” 

“I don’t know, maybe… once, twice a week? We just talk about boring things — TV, weather, the news. Boring British small talk. Sometimes he asks me to tell him about you, when you were younger. Sometimes he talks about his job and the cases he’s worked on.” 

“OK. Why?” 

“Why what?” 

“Why do you go over and talk about me to my partner?” 

“Because he misses you, you daft bitch.” 

Clara blinked hard, her anger dissipating as she realised she’d missed the obvious. “Oh.” 

“Yeah, oh. God, for an intelligent woman, you can be really bloody thick sometimes.” 

“Well! Don’t come in here looking guilty as sin, behaving all cryptically, and then tell me you’re ‘seeing’ my partner!” 

“Don’t be so paranoid.” 

“You try being in prison and not being paranoid,” Clara scowled blackly at her sister. “It’s a necessary survival technique. Was that it? Was that all you wanted to say: that you’re ‘seeing’ John?” 

“No, it’s uh…” Bonnie dropped her gaze, and Clara felt her heart lurch uncomfortably.

“What?” she asked in a panic, the anger she had felt seconds before turning to terror. “Is he hurt? Is he in trouble? Has he done something to you? Has he done something to Kate?” 

“Urm,” Bonnie took a shaky breath, and then checked off: “Yes, yes, no, and no, but I think he wants to.”

“What?!” Clara yelped, running over scenarios in her mind’s eye. “Tell me everything, and tell me everything now.” 

“Kate went round to confront him, after you entered your plea. I think she already suspected something was going on between the two of you, but his reaction to the question — he didn’t answer, but that didn’t help — confirmed it, and he’s been suspended.” 

“Fuck,” Clara closed her eyes, pressing her fists into her eye sockets until stars popped across the blackness of the inside of her lids. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

“They’re holding an internal enquiry, but I don’t know… he doesn’t know…”

“Is he alright?” Clara’s eyes snapped open as she registered what Bonnie had said in response to her earlier question. “You said he was hurt. What happened?” 

“He punched a wall after he was suspended. It’s not broken, but I think he’s messed up his wrist again.” 

Clara let out a groan of frustration and empathic pain. “Of course,” she whispered, shaking her head with a combination of fond exasperation and genuine concern. “Of course, he needed to rest it…”

“I’m trying to make him rest it now, and it’s strapped up. He’s going to be alright.”

“Physically, yes,” Clara mumbled sadly. “But his job… he loves that job; he loves what he does.”

“I know.”

“You said he was talking about it,” Clara noted, looking up at Bonnie with a hopeful smile. “So, is he sort of… alright?” 

“No, he, uh…” Bonnie swallowed, looking pointedly at the table and avoiding her sister’s gaze. “Sometimes, when I go over, he’s had a couple of whiskeys and he gets all sad and Scottish and rambles about his job and the ‘fuckin’ English.’”

Clara shook her head, pained by the thought of John, drinking alone and crying into her sister’s arms. He needed _her_ , not her physical duplicate, and there was no substitute for that, no matter how hard he might wish Bonnie was her, or cling to her. “He’s… he’s…” 

“He didn’t want you to know, but I just… I can’t keep lying to you. You need to know what’s going on out there.” 

“Can you…” Clara could feel tears burning at her eyes, and she swiped at them in embarrassment. “Can you promise me something?” 

“Anything.” 

“Look after him for me. Please.” 

“I promise, Clara.”


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the trial gets underway, Clara thinks she is prepared for anything. But this? This, she isn't ready for.

The first few days of the trial were a singular kind of torture, at least as far as Clara was concerned. She had been firmly instructed to sit at her lawyer’s side and keep her head bowed, avoiding meeting the gaze of anyone unless called upon to do so, and she found herself grateful for this course of action that seemed designed to save her from complete breakdown. She hadn’t the courage to look around the room; hadn’t the energy to attempt to look contrite or apologetic or any other of a number of things; hadn’t the daring to see who had installed themselves in the public gallery to watch her humiliation come to pass. She stood when she was asked to stand. She spoke when she was spoken to. She sat when she was told to sit. The rest of the time, she gazed down at her hands, picking at her cuticles until they bled. She would lie in her cell in the evenings, flexing her fingers and feeling the dull, stinging ache around her nails from the day’s ministrations, and she would ruminate on the things they were saying about her in court.

There was little doubt that Liz Decimam was an outstanding lawyer, despite Clara’s initial misgivings. She was assertive and confident, uniquely persuasive, and she had a manner that bordered on arrogance as she addressed the court with stunning eloquence. She would gesture to Clara when she spoke, delivering long, passionate addresses designed to win the judge and jury over to their case; pacing back and forth across the floor of the court in long, self-assured strides as she did so. Her words were well-informed, well-researched, and well-delivered, and yet Clara felt as though they were referring to someone else — a stranger; one that she was no acquainted with. The woman Liz described was not her; the woman Liz painted a picture of was not the woman that she was, and yet she recognised the necessary theatrics and pantomime of the whole affair.

Clara kept her head bowed as Liz recounted what had happened to her at university. She kept her head bowed as Liz spoke carefully chosen words into existence, playing on the sympathy of the women in the courtroom. Clara’s vulnerability was picked over; her mental state was cross-examined. Psychiatrists discussed her supposed PTSD, and she simply sat there, forcing herself to be silent and immobile, while they talked about her with cold, impassive language as though she were not a human being, but rather a scientific curiosity. She felt like a freak. She felt like a museum exhibit — something for people to wonder over, and discuss, but not something that might have the ability to hear them, or consciousness, or feelings.

Clara listened to the psychiatrists for the prosecution arguing that her sexual assault was insignificant. She clenched her fists at that — she couldn’t help it; the action was wholly reflexive — and lowered her head all the further, her shoulders hunching over and her hair falling forward to hide her face as they picked over the case; picked over the fact he had been her boyfriend; picked over the fact she had been drinking. She bit down on her lips until they bled; her nails cut into her palms and left angry purple crescents in the soft skin there; and, in the darkness of her cell that evening, she ran a fingertip over the indentations and wondered how, precisely, such people could sleep at night. 

Clara listened to some of the men she had robbed, blustering and stammering with incredulous fury in the witness box. Their pomp and arrogance tainted their testimony, she thought to herself privately — as they swore and gesticulated and vowed revenge, they presented little in the way of true fact, and she could practically sense Liz’s smugness at her side as they proved themselves to be unreliable as witnesses. They could not name her, but they could point, and yet their manner and their attitudes rendered them unbelievable as they gave themselves over to the outraged theatrics of their social class. She was stunned by how few of them there were, until Liz informed her tartly one morning that most were too humiliated to show their faces in court, or were unwilling to admit to themselves they were victims. For all their celebration and jubilation upon her arrest, they seemed unwilling to engage with the legal process of keeping her away from them, and that worked well in her favour. 

Clara held little interest in psychiatrists, or witnesses, or lawyers. The judge was tangentially important, she supposed, as were the members of the jury. There were people sat in the public gallery, who she thought should have been of some interest, although she found it hard to care about them beyond the superficial. She thought that Bonnie might be up there, although she couldn’t bring herself to raise her head to look — it was too much to think about her sister seeing her like this, so she kept her head down and tried to avoid looking around as much as possible. What she was waiting for, with equal parts longing and dread, was them bringing John onto the stand.

It was an inevitability; that much she was certain of. Her own team were planning to use him, although she knew that this meant that he would be cross-examined in the most stinging of ways, and she cringed with empathic pain when she thought about the cruel words and false accusations that they would surely sling at him. He had already faced the wrath of his superiors, and now… now he would be facing the cockiness of both Liz and the prosecuting lawyer, who was strutting around the court as though he owned the place. Lance Bennett was young and full of the arrogance that came with it, self-assured and smirking as he questioned witnesses. Clara cringed at the thought of John being faced with such a man, and yet she knew it was a foregone conclusion, one that she struggled to accept.

After the first two weeks, when the day finally came that John was called to the stand, Clara was entirely unprepared for his appearance. She had not expected him to appear so early on, and, for the first time since proceedings began, she raised her head and looked up as his name was called.

He stepped into the courtroom in an ill-fitting suit, his face more drawn than it had been when she had last seen him, and the shadow of a beard dusting his cheeks and jaw. His hair was longer, too, and scruffier, and, despite his attempt at adopting the costume of a man who knew the correct way to present himself in court, he looked out of place and ill-groomed, his expression grim and his eyes ringed with the dark purple of exhaustion. 

Clara wanted to go to him. With every fibre of her being, she fought to stay in her chair, her hands clutching the seat until her knuckles turned white, and she willed him to look at her. _Please_ , she implored silently. _John, please, look at me, please, I need_ -

As though hearing her, he looked over and their eyes locked. Clara could see the terror and uncertainty in his gaze, and she wanted to mouth something, to smile, to do anything to reassure him, and yet he looked away almost instantly, taking the stand and looking down at his own lap, visibly uncomfortable to be there.

“So,” Liz got to her feet, and Clara tried to steel herself for what was to come. “Mr Smith. Could you please state for the court your occupation?” 

“Urm,” John swallowed thickly. “I’m a Detective Inspector for the Metropolitan Police. Am. Was. I… I’ve been suspended.” 

“And could you please tell the court why that was?”

“My superior officer found out that I… that I…” he raised his gaze then, and Clara could see the tears that welled in his eyes as he spoke. “That I was in love with someone I was supposed to be investigating.” 

“Could you please confirm for me who you mean?”

“I mean Clara Oswald,” John looked over at her again then, their eyes meeting, and she flashed him the ghost of a smile. He seemed to draw courage from that, and he took a deep breath before saying: “I fell in love with Clara Oswald.” 

There was an outbreak of scandalised murmuring from the court, and John rubbed the back of his neck, swallowing with visible discomfort. 

“And for how long would you say that this has been the case?” 

“Several months now.” 

“Could you be more precise?” 

“Maybe six months? I couldn’t put an exact number on it.”

“How did this happen? How did it come to pass that a member of the police force fell in love with someone he was investigating?”

“She fascinated me. She was just… intriguing, in every sense of the word.”

“So, it’s lust, actually?” Liz arched an eyebrow, and Clara bit back the urge to swear. “Would that be correct?” 

“No,” John gritted his teeth. “I love her, and anything else you want to throw at me, any other accusations, are entirely unfounded.” 

“So, would it be unfair to say that you acted on your feelings by impeding the police investigation into Miss Oswald?” 

“I…” John blinked hard, then looked back down at his lap. “No, it would not.” 

“How, precisely did you do so?” 

Clara knew the attack of conscience John would be experiencing. He loved his job and had dedicated his life to it, and admitting the ways in which he had fallen short in the name of love would be painful. He had made decisions that she had never asked him to; he had hidden things and lied and stalled the investigation wherever possible, and admitting to it all in a court of law would surely render it all the more true, in a way that he would have been able to ignore up until this point. She watched him have a crisis of faith, both yearning for him to tell the truth and yet also wishing he did not have to.

And then he raised his head and began to tell the entire tale from the beginning.

 

* * *

 

As she lay in her bunk that evening, mulling over John’s testimony, she fought the urge to cry. Doing so would be fruitless — John’s account of his own actions were a matter of public record now, and they felt uncomfortably true, hanging over her like a dark cloud. She was sure, in the eyes of the media, that she would now be vilified all the more intensely in the wake of the account he had given. Not only was she a sinful woman who had stolen from the wealthy and powerful, now she was a seductive temptress who had had her wicked way with two upstanding police officers, causing them to overlook vital evidence and pervert the course of justice. She had sat through John’s account of her affair with Danny, suppressing the urge to cry by biting down on her lip, and then she had listened as he told of their love in cold, dispassionate language, knowing that it was what was required of him, but feeling dirty and sullied nonetheless.

She’d felt shame, then; hot, disgusting shame that crawled over her skin and made her want to weep with humiliation and self-loathing. She had corrupted these two honourable men for her own ends, and now Danny had lost his life and John had lost his life’s calling, and she knew that it would all be for nought. She would still be found guilty. She would still be punished. John would undoubtedly be fired, now that the extent of his behaviour had been exposed and she would spend the rest of her days rotting in this cell, burdened by her own guilt for destroying the life of the man she loved. She wasn’t sure she could bear it. She wasn’t sure she would be able to stand the oppressive weight of her own guilt, and, for the first time, she began to consider finding some way to end it all. 

Would that be futile? Was it foolish to wish for death when it was the only way out of this that she could see? There were few options for her left — she would either spend the rest of her days here, deprived of liberty and burdened with regret, or she would be released and become a pariah of society. There seemed little point to either option; little optimism in either outcome. Perhaps death would be a blessing. Perhaps it would be the most peaceful way to go — to die now, peacefully, rather than face a potentially bloody death in a prison recreation yard or a back alley in five years’ time.

How to do it? How to go about it? She couldn’t leave a note — in the lack of privacy of the cell, there was little option to do so without alerting Jenny to her actions. She had already made peace with Bonnie, she supposed, and John would only be stricken if he received any final words from her. No, far better to leave without ceremony or aplomb. He would be better off without a final goodbye. She had destroyed enough of his life; let her death set him free from the duality of his love for her and his inevitable resentment.

“Don’t,” Jenny said from the darkness, and Clara let out a yelp of shock. “I know what you’re thinking, and don’t.” 

“How-” 

“You’re hyperventilating, and you’ve just seen the man you love be cross-examined, and you’re thinking about ending it all to evade the guilt. I’m telling you: don’t.” 

“But-”

“Clara,” Jenny climbed out of her bunk and crouched beside her, her hair gleaming in the moonlight trickling in through the window. “That man loves you, and he’s already lost you once. Don’t you dare let him lose you again.”


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody is ever ready for this. Least of all Clara.

As the trial dragged on, each day becoming more interminable, Clara could feel her energy being sapped incrementally, her eyes dulling, until she felt like nothing more than a hollow shell of the woman she had once been. She was sure that there was discussion of this occurring — wonderment that this fragile-seeming, terrified woman had once been capable of the things she was accused of, queries over whether it was some kind of strategy — and yet it was entirely unintentional; a side-effect of watching your life picked over by strangers before returning to the same concrete box and the same people and the same routine every night, trying to go through the motions of normal life as though you weren’t in constant fear of violence or brutal murder.

Jenny was a shining light in the darkness — warm and chatty and eternally optimistic, forcing Clara into engaging in conversation for a few minutes each evening; encouraging her to keep her brain sharp. She knew she should repay her cellmate with kindness, and yet, as time passed, Clara began to feel resentful towards Jenny and her boundless positivity. There seemed little point in being upbeat when her fate seemed set in stone, and undoubtedly, once she was found guilty, then she would be moved to a different wing, or a different prison altogether. There was no point in getting attached. 

Osgood and Liz were entirely condemnatory of her slow-onset apathy. She was chided more times than she could count for looking miserable and disinterested in court; for refusing to sit or stand up straight; for looking down at her lap and allowing her hair to hide her face. She was plied with coffee and chocolate and chewing gum during breaks; smuggled McDonald’s meals and magazines and even a mobile phone, but, upon finding that her social media had been suspended and that the world of celebrity was ticking on, unconcerned with anything less trivial than this diet or that outfit, Clara fell further into her fugue of numbness.

More than anything, she wanted her sister, or John. She longed for them, and yet speaking to them was forbidden as the trial played out, and so all she could do was imagine their faces and their voices and hold long, detailed imaginary conversations with them in the dead of night, talking about stupidly mundane things such as the weather or what was on TV. There was little point in imagining anything of the future in these midnight discussions — she knew she was condemned, and thus there was no mention of days to come, nor of anything other than eternal incarceration.

She wondered what that meant — that even her daydreams were full of a future behind bars, and she took to wondering precisely how old she would be upon her release. Sixty, perhaps? Fifty at a push? She couldn’t imagine being that old; wondered how her face might age in the confines of a cell for much of her waking hours. Perhaps she would be perfectly preserved, or perhaps she might not; she would emerge from prison and compare herself to Bonnie, and they would laugh at the lack of similarities between them, and life would, she supposed, go on. Would she remember how to be? Would she remember how to function? Or would she be like an enormous overgrown baby, clinging to another for support and sustenance and guidance on how to be a person again, unable to cope with the enormity and possibility of a world that would have moved on without her?

The thought struck her that perhaps Bonnie would not be around to provide support. She might have her own family; she might not have the time or inclination to support her ex-convict twin. The thought of missing out on Bonnie’s life was far more painful than the thought of the years she would undoubtedly lose of her own; the thought of missing seeing her raise a family, or settle down, was an acute kind of pain that settled over her chest with a clinging feeling of suffocation. There would be no serving as a bridesmaid. There would be no role as a godparent. There would be no newborn or small child, warm and heavy, in her arms. She couldn’t stand the thought of being included as tokenism, either; she was repulsed by the thought of small children being brought here to see her, and what they would think of her. She would be a stranger; a woman in a world of grey who they were brought to see once a week against their will. She would far rather be absent entirely than inflict such a thing on others, and she resolved that, when this was over, she would provide Bonnie with a set of rules for how this would proceed. 

It was inevitable that, as she involuntarily imagined a hypothetical future for her twin, her own lost chances would float to the forefront of her consciousness. She wasn’t a fool; she knew that, by the time she was released John would be an old man, and yet she knew that she would go to him all the same. She would build a life with him, regardless of where he had ended up or how, and if that meant starting a new life somewhere abroad, then so be it. They would be together, if he wanted them to be, and the sudden realisation that perhaps he would have forgotten her, or moved on, or blamed her for the ignoble loss of his career, was insufferable. What if that wasn’t what he wanted? What if he wouldn’t visit? What if he… she could hardly think it, but what if he was dead by the time she tasted freedom again? 

Her own self-loathing and her ability to construct entire narratives from the simplest “what-ifs” were stifling. Clara spent each evening lost in futures of her own imagining, having endless conversations and arguments, making amends, pleading forgiveness, and wishing things were different. If only she had never come to London. If only she had never been on that first date. If only she had never taken those first few pounds. If only, if only, if only. She had considered idly once what would have happened if only she had never met Danny, before shaking her head hard enough to hurt and nipping that thought in the bud. Without Danny, there would have been no John; indeed, perhaps at a more base level, without her actions, there would have been no John, and so she could not bring herself to condemn herself entirely, as her crimes had brought her far more than just punishment. They had brought her someone who adored her, even if she had inadvertently destroyed all he stood for, and she could not bring herself to regret that. 

Was that wrong of her? Clara supposed so; it was selfish, and yet she knew that without John, things would have escalated all the further and she would never have been privy to the purest form of love that she had experienced. John’s adoration of her was not founded in lust, desire, or physicality. He found her attractive — found her _beautiful_ — and yet that had never driven him; he had looked past that and looked past her crimes to the person within and seen who she was and who she _could_ be. He had seen her as infinite potential, and he adored her with every fibre of his being because he saw the good and the hope in her heart and united it with his own. They were two misfits with personalities which masked vulnerability and fragile optimism, and together they had been able to grow. She wondered how John would cope with being left alone for so many years, and she prayed he would be resilient enough to hold himself together. For all his bluster and anger, he had a gentle soul, and he would be suffering as he watched her do the same.

She wished, fruitlessly, that he had looked at her more often as he had testified. Aside from those early glances, he had kept his gaze locked forwards, refusing to make eye contact with her as he answered question after question, his soul being exposed, piece by piece, by both barristers as they cross-examined him. If only he had looked to her; if only he had been able to meet her gaze a final time before he was led away. She wished with all her heart she could have gone to him and held him in her arms so that they might both have gleaned some modicum of comfort from the physical contact, but it was not to be.

Instead, she lay awake each night, alone with her thoughts, and yearned.

 

* * *

 

Under an overcast autumnal sky, Clara trudged her usual route into the court building, her hands cuffed awkwardly in front of her and a custody officer either side of her. There was the usual clamour of reporters around her; a scrum of journalists and photographers and flash bulbs popping in her peripheral vision, but she was used to it now and kept her head bowed, shuffling passively inside and looking around for her barrister. Liz barrelled into her almost at once, manically jabbering into her phone and seizing hold of Clara by the lapel of her blazer, ignoring the hostile stares of the accompanying officers and pulling her along the corridor a short way.

“They’ve…” Liz tucked the phone between her cheek and her shoulder, her face a mask of anger. “The fucking _bastards_. The jury only sat yesterday after you left and they’ve been at it all night; they’ve reached a verdict.” 

An ice-cold feeling crept over Clara, from the top of her head to her toes, and she felt terror clutch at her heart. “They’ve…” she managed, swallowing thickly and trying to stop herself from hyperventilating. “They’ve… what? Already?” 

“You’re due in the dock in five. For fuck sake, Officer Skaldak, stop glowering at me like that, I’m entitled to speak to my client.”

“I…” Clara leant against the nearest wall, her legs threatening to give way under her. “I… I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” Liz said with surprising gentleness, placing a steadying hand on Clara’s shoulder. “Take some long breaths. You’re going to be fine. Whatever happens, you’re going to be fine.” 

“But…” 

“If they find you guilty, we will take the bastards back to court and appeal. We will appeal to every goddamn court we possibly can, if needs be. There is no way we are going to take what they say laying down. I promise you that, Clara.” 

“Who’s on…” Clara gestured to the phone. 

“Osgood. She’s stuck in traffic. Here,” Liz thrust the phone at Clara, holding it against her ear. “Talk to her, Osgood.” 

“Hi,” Osgood’s voice was muffled, and a horn sounded in the background. “Clara, you’re going to be alright. I know you must be in shock, but you can do this. You’ve already been so courageous, and I promise you, you will be able to face this with just as much bravery as you’ve faced everything else.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“I _know_ you can.”

“Is… is anyone here? Apart from Liz?”

“Bonnie’s in the gallery, Liz says.” 

“Oh, Jesus,” Clara felt a wave of nausea overcome her, and she thought for one awful moment that she might be sick on Liz. “I don’t… I don’t want her…” 

“She insisted,” Liz said bluntly, shrugging as she spoke. “Believe me, we tried to insist you wouldn’t want her here, but she insisted on coming once we told her.” 

“But she’s going to see…”

“She’s going to see her sister being brave,” Osgood reminded her. “I will be there as soon as I can to help, alright?” 

“Mm.”

“Be brave.”

“Mm.” 

Liz took the phone back and muttered some things into it that Clara couldn’t catch, before hanging up and standing up straight, shoulders back, and her head held high. Clara suspected she was supposed to do the same, so she did her best to arrange herself similarly, and Liz nodded in approval. 

“You can do this,” Liz said for what felt like the hundredth time, brushing down Clara’s suit and smoothing her hair tenderly. “I promise you.” 

“I don’t think I’m ready.” 

“No one is ever ready for this.” 

“But-” 

Two officers of the court appeared from nowhere, and Liz stepped back with an apologetic smile, offering Clara a final tight nod as the cuffs were removed from her wrists and she was lead through the horribly familiar dark corridor and into the dock. Clara’s every instinct screamed at her to sit, but she forced herself to remain standing, her hands twisted together behind her back as the judge stepped into the courtroom. 

There were words then; many of them, and they seemed important, but all Clara could hear was her blood pounding in her ears, her heart beating so fast that it felt as though she were vibrating. Her hands were shaking and she clutched them together all the more tightly, feeling her nails bite into her palms as she stared straight ahead, the judge’s speech washing over her like water, none of it penetrating her consciousness as she focused all her energy on not passing out.

And then, at last, the words she had been waiting to hear, addressed to the jury, and her attention snapped back to the present.

“Foreman, we will start with the least serious of the charges against Miss Oswald first. On the charge of vandalism, how do you find Miss Oswald?” 

“Guilty.”

Clara inhaled sharply.

“On the charges of administering noxious substances with the intent to cause harm, how do you find Miss Oswald?”

“Guilty.” 

Clara’s vision began to swim. 

“Lastly, on the charges of burglary, theft, aggravated assault, and assaulting a police officer, how do you find Miss Oswald?”

There was a pause of what felt like hours. 

“Not guilty.”


	48. Chapter 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of what happened in court, Clara struggles to adjust.

Clara sagged against the edge of the dock, her legs no longer strong enough to support her. Her head was pounding, and she blinked hard, trying to process what she had just heard. The words rang in her consciousness, and yet she couldn’t seem to make sense of them; her brain tried and tried, and yet they continued to lack any form of significant meaning.

_Not guilty._

_Not guilty._

_Not guilty._

_Not –_  

“Miss Oswald?” the judge’s voice cut through her state of dizzy shock like a knife, bringing her awareness back to the courtroom. “Miss Oswald, look at me.” 

Clara looked up at her with difficulty, forcing herself to concentrate and come back to herself. She was dimly aware of the court being abuzz with disbelieving murmurs and hushed whispers, but she tried to filter that out, focusing only on the face of the woman who now held her fate in her hands. 

“Miss Oswald, I admit to being surprised by this verdict, but as it has been lawfully agreed upon by a jury of your peers, then I must accept their decision. You will be sentenced for the two offences which you have been found guilty of within the next few weeks. In the meantime, given that you have been cleared of the most serious of these offences…” the judge paused, her expression stern and disapproving, yet also oddly compassionate. “Then I will release you on bail until such a time that you are recalled to court for sentencing.” 

Clara felt her eyes burn with tears, and she nodded in the judge’s direction, too overwhelmed to find words to begin to convey her gratitude. Home. She would be able to go _home_. She would be able to see Bonnie and John and her friends — if they still wanted to be associated with her, of course, but she was far less concerned by the intricacies of her social life than she was by the prospect of seeing her loved ones. Even if the reprieve was only brief, she would be free to go where she pleased, to do as she liked, and to not be confined to a tiny cell. She felt a pang of regret that she would not be able to say farewell to Jenny, then a further rush of elation at the prospect of freedom, and she resolved — if nothing else — to write to her eternally kind cellmate, to thank her for bolstering her when she was at her lowest ebb. 

“Do you understand?” the judge asked, and Clara realised that she had been staring into space for some time, and she nodded again as she realised a response was required from her to confirm her comprehension of what had been said.

“Yes,” she breathed, finding her voice at last, before saying more loudly: “Yes, I do. Thank you.” 

The judge inclined her head for a final time before getting to her feet and sweeping from the courtroom, which erupted into frenzied, hysterical furore as all those ceased to suppress their shock and began to express their sentiments at the loudest possible volume. Unwilling and unable to tune into the words being hurled at her and about her, Clara became aware of someone tugging at her arm, and she allowed herself to be led through the tunnel and out into the maze of corridors with a sense of relief. For the first time, as she walked through the dark hallways, her hands were free from cuffs, yet she held them self-consciously in front of her out of habit, unsure what to do with them and wishing fervently she had something to hold, or proper pockets to plunge them into. 

Liz and Osgood appeared beside her, both beaming like Cheshire Cats, and they immediately started throwing around words like _police protection_ and _appeals_ and _press strategies_ , but Clara’s attention was captured by a movement at the end of the corridor.

Stopping to speak to the custody officers who flanked the entrance to this part of the building, before stepping past them warily, a lone figure took hesitant, uncertain steps towards her.

Letting out a cry of joy, Clara shoved past the gaggle of people that surrounded her, starting to run as every fibre of her being attuned itself to the figure approaching her. They crashed together in the middle of the corridor, and Clara felt a sob of joy tear itself from her chest as John wrapped his arms around her and lifted her clear of the floor, clinging to her like a lifeline and spinning her around. In that instant, none of what had come before or had yet to come was important; nothing mattered except the two of them, and the here and now.

“I…” she tried to find the right words as their eyes met and she felt herself beginning to come back to life. “John…” 

“My Clara,” he breathed, and then his lips were on hers. The shock and the thrill of it were dizzying; Clara’s heart was pounding against her ribs, and she was grateful for the support of John’s arms as she leant against him and tried to pour everything she had felt in the preceding weeks into the kiss: how much she had missed him, how much she had needed him, and how much she had longed for this moment and the comforting familiarity of his presence. When the time finally came for them to break apart, she smiled at him with something akin to shyness, and he laced his fingers through hers and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze as they both turned to face her legal team. 

“You know you aren’t out of the woods,” Liz reminded them gently, and Clara nodded, feeling a pang of fear that she immediately tried to repress. “And Clara, I don’t just mean you.”

“I don’t want to think about that,” she said in a small voice, shaking her head as she spoke and looking at John, whose expression had become sombre. “Not yet.” 

“I know,” Liz shot them an apologetic smile. “But at some point-” 

“Please,” John asked quietly, in a voice far humbler than she had ever heard him use before. “Please, can we just… can we just have some time to live, first?”

“I think there might be someone else who would also like some time with Clara,” Osgood noted, inclining her head towards something behind them, and Clara turned and found Bonnie stood behind her, hands shoved deep into her pockets and her cheeks a delicate shade of pink.

“I’m not picking you u-” Bonnie began, before she was cut off by Clara flinging her arms around her and beginning to cry. “Hey! Hey, it’s alright, Clara. You’re alright now, I’m here. We’re both here.”

“Don’t,” John warned in a low voice, and Clara looked up, realising that her lawyers or a custody officer had been on the verge of speaking again, perhaps to reiterate Liz’s warning, and she felt a surge of gratitude that he had cut them off. She didn’t want to think about what was to come, not yet. She could compartmentalise it away in her brain; pack it away into a safe place where she didn’t have to confront it or acknowledge its presence, and so she would do that, at least for the next couple of days.

“Clara, there are things we need to discuss,” Osgood reminded her, and Clara sighed, wanting to cling to her twin for as long as she possibly could, but knowing that there were practical arrangements that must be made. “If we could…” 

“Can they come?” Clara asked, keeping hold of Bonnie and reaching for John with her free hand. “Please?”

“Urm…” Osgood blinked hard, looking over at Liz, who merely shrugged in defeat. “I don’t see why not.”

“Good,” Clara smiled. “So, let’s discuss.”

 

* * *

 

Thanks to the seemingly endless meeting to discuss the pragmatics of the next few weeks, accompanied by constant, jarring warnings about her own safety — not to mention that of John and her twin — Clara had little time to appreciate the first few hours of her own freedom. There was the stolid, reassuring presence of John on her left and Bonnie on her right, each of them holding one of her hands and occasionally leaning against her for comfort, and then after everything had been said that needed to be said, there was a long, terse car ride to the safehouse that had been arranged for Clara as an interim measure. The thought of it both unsettled her and reassured her; she yearned for the familiar and the well known, and yet, if her safety would be assured by remaining here with her loved ones, then she would consent to it as an unfortunate necessity. A few weeks of freedom limited to a small, non-descript house in Fulham would have been an almost unbearable prospect without Bonnie and John for company, and yet somehow she couldn’t find it in herself to complain as they stepped over the threshold and sank onto the anonymous beige sofa in warm, grateful silence. 

“Tea?” Bonnie asked almost at once, getting to her feet and shooting her twin a look that Clara recognised at once, and she felt a rush of love for her sister for understanding that she and John needed a moment alone together. “Coffee?” 

“Tea, please,” Clara hummed, smiling at her sister. “ _Decent_ tea. Please.”

“Dunno about that,” Bonnie wrinkled her nose. “You’ll get whatever they’ve stocked the kitchen with.”

“It’ll probably be alright, though it depends on whether there’s been any budget cuts,” John interjected. “I’ll have the same. Five sugars.”

Bonnie inclined her head a degree or two, then headed off in search of the kitchen. 

“She’s got tact, hasn’t she?” John murmured, wrapping his arm around Clara and drawing her onto his lap. He pressed his face against her hair, his arms circling her waist tightly as he cradled her against his chest, holding onto her as though afraid to let go. “You’ve got her very well-trained.” 

Clara closed her eyes and burrowed into his chest, knotting her fingers into the stiff white fabric of his shirt and wishing he’d picked something more informal. The buttons of the shirt dug into her face uncomfortably, and the stark formality of the outfit was distinctly unlike him, but still she nuzzled into him, the physical contact intoxicating as she breathed in his smell and listened to the reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat, feeling safer than she had in months. “This doesn’t feel real.”

“I know.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know.”

“John… I need… will you promise…”

“What?” he pressed a kiss to her temple, one of his hands coming up to cup her cheek as he tilted her head up and met her gaze. “What do you need me to promise?”

“Promise me that, no matter what happens, we’ll just enjoy this time.”

“I promise,” he assured her quietly, his eyes burning into hers. “I promise you, Clara, that this time is all that matters.”

“I…” she swallowed hard, her eyes suddenly burning with tears. “I missed…” her voice broke and she began to sob, rocking gently backwards and forwards as she wept.

“I’m here,” he reminded her in a low, soft voice. “Clara, I’m here. I’ve got you.”

“I thought… I really thought…” she hiccoughed, pressing her face into his shoulder as she mumbled: “I really thought about… about ending it…”

“And you didn’t,” he said after a moment’s pause, and she loathed herself as she realised how much those words would hurt him. “You didn’t, and I can’t even begin to describe you how thankful I am that you’re here, you’re with me, and you’re safe."

“I’m sorry, John, I’m so sorry…” she gulped, the guilt she had been carrying with her ever since her arrest finally overwhelming her. “Your career… I didn’t want…”

“Fuck my career,” he said with absolute calmness. “Fuck the force. Fuck everything. What matters is us. What matters is that you were found not guilty.” 

“But… you loved…” 

“You. I love _you_. That job was killing me slowly,” his hands started to stroke a slow, reassuring pattern on her back, the physical contact soothing her a modicum. “You are all that matters to me, Clara.” 

“I love you,” the words tumbled from her lips, and she realised how much she had missed saying them. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I don’t ever want to stop saying it, John.” 

“You never will,” he vowed. “I swear to you, you never will.”


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara asks John to fill in the blanks.

John could still scarcely believe that this was real. He had spent so many hours during Clara’s trial attempting to steel himself for a seemingly-inevitable conclusion in which he would never be able to see her again, and now… now this brief reprieve seemed like a tiny piece of heaven; a moment of calm at the eye of the storm that was undoubtedly broiling around them. Kept inside the house and away from the Internet, he would have been oblivious about the heightened tensions surrounding the trial had it not been for Bonnie, who had chanced a visit home on the first night of their quasi-custody, only to be met with hurled abuse and threats of physical violence in a case of mistaken identity. She’d returned to the safehouse with her head bowed and her body shaking with fear, telling him in hushed whispers what had happened, and then they had both sworn to keep it from Clara. She didn’t need to be concerned with such matters. She didn’t need to know the magnitude of what was happening in the city she had once called home. She didn’t need to know about the public anger being directed towards her. 

It wasn’t lying, John told himself. It was simply… omitting information to protect Clara. Perhaps it might have been motivated by his own selfishness — his desire to enjoy what little time they might have together, unimpeded by her anxiety and terror, was overwhelming — but, while he was driven by his own desire for a “perfect” few days, he also knew that Clara would not want to waste their time together living in fear and apprehension. She would be consumed by the news, and ruminate on it constantly, and so he avoided telling her for the sake of preserving her bliss.

Each morning, when he awoke with her in his arms, all that he had endured over the previous weeks seemed suddenly tolerable. He had laboured through the accusations of misconduct and the meetings and the disciplinary procedures with the tiny, foolhardy, yet optimistic spark of hope that he might, perhaps, be able to see Clara again at the end of it all, and now here she was; here was his happy ending, and he wondered how long they might be granted to enjoy their halcyon days before the real world intervened. He prayed that there would be no end; that they would be able to simply exist like this forever, but he knew it was an untenable wish. 

It was a curious life, living in police protection; it was as though you were caught somewhere between sleeping and waking, unable to leave the house, unable to have contact with the outside world, but secure in the knowledge that you were, at the very least, _safe_. He would have sacrificed every day of his liberty between now and his eventual death if he knew that it would ensure Clara’s safety and security, and the rush of love and relief he felt every morning as he looped his arms around her waist and drew her more securely against him was heady. 

Of course, there was the omnipresence of their protection officers. Highly trained and professional enough not to comment on his professional situation, he could nonetheless feel their contempt radiating off them in waves; their disgust as he kissed Clara, or took her by the hand. He couldn’t blame them — as far as they were concerned, he had betrayed the Met in the most heinous of ways — but it still rankled with him; he was at once grateful for their presence and furious about them looming over him and Clara and Bonnie like dark shadows. Clara, accustomed by now to the continued presence of custody officers and prison officers in her every waking hour, seemed unflustered by their presence, but he could tell that she was holding back; the only time she seemed herself was when they were alone in bed together in the depths of night, and even then she seemed muted and undefinably subdued in a way he couldn’t quite comprehend. 

He had known that she would, ultimately, want to ask him questions. Bonnie had heard his sorry tale, but it was not her place to tell it to Clara, and so he knew that inevitably she would ask to be told, and he would have to tell her. She was entitled to know, and she had told him of her time in custody — the kindness of her cellmate, the drudgery of prison, and the relief of being free — but he still loathed the prospect; still found himself suffused with dread at the thought of telling her. He knew that she would blame herself, and he wished fervently that she would not — they were both consenting adults and they were both equally culpable in his downfall — and so he held back, waiting for her to ask the first question when she felt ready to hear his story. 

The moment came as they lay in bed one evening. Clara was facing away from him, curled up with several inches of space between them, and he’d thought her to be asleep when she asked, flatly: “What happened?” 

“What happened when?” 

“After I was taken into custody.” 

“Do you really want to-” 

The answer was instantaneous: “Yes.” And then, after a moment’s pause: “Please.”

“Well, urm… Kate came to my flat, the evening of your hearing. I’d… I slept through it; I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to, but she’d been overworking me and I was exhausted. She didn’t understand why you’d plead not guilty, and she was trying to unpick the how and the why of it all, but I think she already had her suspicions… I don’t _think_ , actually, I _know_ she did. She took me off the case, remember? She didn’t understand why I wasn’t making progress, and I think she knew then, but she suspected us from the incident with Capricorn.”

“What happened that night? When she came to the flat?” 

“She asked if I was fucking you.”

Clara’s breathing hitched, and he knew she was disconcerted by his crude use of language. 

“Those were her actual words,” he clarified. “She asked me three times, getting increasingly more provocative in her choice of language and how she spoke about you. She tried to cheapen what we have, Clara. She kept insinuating that I was just using you… that you were some kind of, I don’t know, some kind of hooker or pornstar and that my only interest in you was sexual. I tried to keep my temper, so help me god, I did, but she kept pushing and pushing and I just… I lost it.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I just exploded and she knew then; she knew by the way I’d reacted, and I could see it was what she’d intended. She’d wanted to rile me. She knew if she got under my skin then she could get a reaction from me, and that’d speak louder than any confession. But it was just… she still seemed to think… she couldn’t understand it, Clara.”

“Understand what?” 

“That I love you. She seemed to think it was all based on physicality and sex; tried to make me out to be some stupid bastard who chased after any available bit of skirt with a pretty face. I’ve never been like that. You know I’ve never been like that.” 

“I know, John,” she still wouldn’t look at him; her entire body remaining facing the wall. “Of course I know that.” 

“Kate told me if I’d destroyed the case, then she’d destroy me and I… Clara, I’m sorry, but I just… I was angry and scared and I blurted out the truth about you and Danny.” 

“Oh,” Clara’s voice was low, flat and full of disappointment. The sound of it nearly killed him, and he wanted — more than anything — for her to look at him. If only he could see her face, he could plead for absolution. “OK.” 

“I… I’m sorry, it just… I didn’t mean to… it was a stupid…” 

“It’s fine,” Clara’s tone indicated clearly that it was anything but. “Keep going.” 

“She suspended me and started an investigation. Looked at the case file, the evidence, the incident log… the lot. Got into my computer and started looking at what I’d accessed and whether I’d changed anything; all that sort of thing.” 

“And had you?” 

“I wanted to keep you safe.” 

“But had you?” 

“A few things,” he admitted tremulously. “Alright? A few things, to try to keep you safe, and if that makes me a bent bastard, then so fucking be it, I’m a bent bastard. But, Jesus, all I ever wanted… Clara, all I ever wanted was to keep those other bastards away from you. To keep you free from harm, and free from prison, and I just… god. I don’t regret it, not a bit. I don’t.” 

Clara let out a little sigh, a tiny _oh_ , and he moved towards her in the darkness, curling around her and pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder.

“I don’t,” he reaffirmed, wrapping his arms around her waist and nuzzling into the hollow between her shoulder and her neck. “Not for one second.”

There was a wetness trickling down the hollow of her throat, and he realised belatedly that she was crying.

“Hey,” he said in a low voice, gently rolling her over to face him and feeling the resistance to the motion in every muscle of her body. “Hey, look at me. Clara, look at me.” 

She looked up at him with the utmost reluctance, and even in the gloom, he could see the tears sparkling on her eyelashes, crystalline and spiked, and the trails of sorrow on her cheeks. 

“I love you,” he murmured. “I love you, and I don’t regret anything I have done, because doing so is like regretting loving you, and I will never, ever do that.” 

“But your job…”

“I don’t care about my job. They suspended me; they held a disciplinary hearing. So what? They sent me a thousand letters threatening me with permanent dismissal from the Met. So what? They can’t do that, and they know they can’t. My conduct and service record have been nothing short of exemplary; they don’t have a leg to stand on. It’s my first offence, and they can’t sack me for a first offence.” 

“John, I’m so sorry,” Clara whispered. “So, so sorry.” 

“Don’t. This isn’t your fault; it was my decision and my choice.” 

“I know, but I know what your job meant to you, and I’m sorry that you’ve been… well, suspended. And the rest.” 

“I’ve weathered far worse storms.”

“That’s a lie, isn’t it?” she asked suspiciously. 

“Yes, alright. But I’m surviving. I’ve got you, and I’m surviving.” 

“Do I really make up for losing everything you worked for?”

“Clara,” he said with absolute seriousness. “Yes. You absolutely do.”

 

* * *

 

On the seventh day of their newly insular existence, a knock on the door came. It was not unusual; there was a steady trickle of officers and lawyers that stopped by, and so John kept his attention on the bacon sandwich he was demolishing, turning the page of a book Clara had recommended and that someone had managed to procure for him from… well, somewhere. Across the table from him, there was the quiet sound of Clara sipping her coffee, and he looked up at her with a warm smile, feeling his heart skip a beat as she returned the gesture.

“That’s probably for me,” she asserted, yawning almightily and stretching like a cat. “I should go and get dressed.”

“No need to worry about that,” said a chillingly familiar voice, and Kate Stewart stepped into the kitchen, a pair of handcuffs at her belt. John got to his feet at once, folding his arms and feeling his adrenaline spike instantaneously as his body tensed from head to toe, ready to fight or flight. “We aren’t here for her.”

“Kate, what the-”

“John Smith, I’m arresting you on suspicion of misconduct in public office. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

Across the table, Clara began to scream. 


	50. Epilogue: Eighteen Months Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison visiting rooms are always grim places.

The heavy metal door clanged shut behind Clara, and she shuffled into the visitors room with her usual swooping sense of apprehension. She tried to bite back her nerves as she sank down in her usual grey plastic seat, twisting her hands together in her lap as she let out a long breath, and the guard strode away from her with thinly disguised contempt, retreating to the edge of the room, but keeping his eyes trained on her. She hated this; hated feeling watched; hating feeling mistrusted. She tried valiantly to ignore his stare burning into her back, instead focusing her attention on the door opposite her and trying to rearrange her face into a smile, her foot jumping nervously under the table as she trembled with adrenaline. She’d done this so many times, and yet still her body betrayed her in this way; still, she found herself a nervous wreck each time it came to returning to this place. 

When the door swung open, her smile became genuine in an instant. Her face relaxed and she felt her anxiety melt away as John was led into the room and dropped into the chair opposite her, his expression weary, but overjoyed at the sight of her. 

“Hello,” he said at once, reaching for her hand over the table, and she took it without hesitation, giving it a reassuring squeeze. His skin felt cool to the touch, and she wrapped his hand in both of hers, feeling the heat leach from her palms to his. This might be all the physical contact that they were allowed, but it felt almost more intimate than a kiss, drawing the guards’ furious ire as they sought the reassurance of the other’s physical presence. “Missed you.”

“Missed you,” she mumbled, looking up at him and conducting her usual mental examination of how he seemed. He didn’t appear hurt; just tired. Yet he was smiling, despite his visible exhaustion, and he seemed in good spirits, so she allowed some of the tension to dissipate from her chest, exhaling with more tangible relief once she was sure that he seemed alright — at least visibly. She asked tentatively: “How have you been?” 

“Same old, same old,” John leant back, running his free hand through his hair and letting out a long breath. “Getting better at painting, although I’m still crap at boring things like fruit. Not getting much better at the guitar, either.” 

“I still can’t believe they let you have a guitar. You’ll be menacing the place with chords and licks.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm in his chest, and Clara felt her heart soar in response. “I could do, couldn’t I? Secure my early release by shredding some sick tunes.”

Clara groaned. “Please never say that again.”

He grimaced. “Yeah, OK, no, not saying that again. I was trying to be ironic; did it work?” 

“Not really.” 

“Ah,” he made a face. “What’s it like out there?” 

“Hot,” she said truthfully, and it was true; she was cold now as she sat in her sundress. “Really, really hot, for spring. The house is looking good; I’ve got most of the painting done now that the weather’s improved, and I think the neighbours have warmed up to me.” 

“That’s no surprise,” John raised his eyebrows, smiling winningly. “You are, after all, extremely lovely.” 

“I am, after all, also an ex-criminal,” she reminded him, poking her tongue out. “And they know that full well.”

“But you’ve changed.”

“A lot of people still think I should’ve been banged up in here, too,” she tilted her head to the side, realising what she’d said. “OK, maybe not _here_ , specifically, as I don’t think I’d be very welcome in an all-male prison-”

“Quite the opposite, actually. You’d be _very_ popular.”

“Cheeky,” she affixed him with a stern look. “But a lot of people are still angry about my suspended sentence. I think they’re hoping I’ll relapse, and then I’ll get banged up as well.”

“Do the neighbours seem to think that?” John asked, frowning in concern.

“No, they seem surprised that I’m not the evil monster the tabloids enjoyed painting me as. At least they can finally tell me and Bonnie apart,” Clara grinned. “Maybe I should’ve played up to the monster thing a bit, especially to the estate agent. I might’ve got a better deal on the place.” 

John flashed a sad smile, and Clara felt a pang of regret. He’d never seen the property that would, eventually, be their shared home — not in person, at least. She’d shown him the photographs and videos she’d taken, and he’d approved, but since then she’d been doing her best to make it homely on her own. 

“I wish…” he began, then closed his eyes, taking a shuddering breath. “I wish I could…”

“I know,” she said softly, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze, knowing that if he fell apart then she would do the same. “John, I know, but you mustn’t feel bad.” 

“But I’m missing so much…” 

“Not for much longer,” she reminded him, trying her best to sound upbeat. “Just six more months. Maybe less, if you’re good.”

“I’m always good,” he mumbled with faux-indignation. “It’s my default setting in here. Only way to survive.” 

“I know,” she hummed, stroking her thumb over the back of his hand. “I know. What I’m trying to get at is that you won’t be here longer, and then our life can really begin.” 

“I love you,” he whispered, looking up at her with eyes wet with tears, and Clara felt her heart lurch. “More than anything.” 

“I love you, too,” she said softly. “We can do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you to everyone who has stuck with this fic from the beginning, or come into it late and binged it! You’re all fab. 
> 
> My 13/Clara AU will begin posting next week!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [#ReleaseImpossibleGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18940609) by [delicatelyglitterywriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/delicatelyglitterywriter/pseuds/delicatelyglitterywriter)
  * [Truth And Consequences](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18972100) by [delicatelyglitterywriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/delicatelyglitterywriter/pseuds/delicatelyglitterywriter)




End file.
